"Hey Ray," he hollered. "Where's the paper?"
His cousin lumbered out of the back room, a balding man wearing a dirty apron over a t-shirt and the biggest pants Levi sold. He carried his morning beer in one hand and the newspaper in the other.
"You want the sports page?" He flipped through. "It ain't here."
"It's in the can. I was looking for the rest."
Ray put his beer down and leaned on the counter until his nose was inches away from Daniel's and stared with this bug-eyed look on his face. Then he started shifting his eyes from one side to the other.
Daniel drew back. "What's with you? How about getting me a cup of coffee. You got a fresh pot?" He picked up the front section.
"Just coffee? Sure you don't want a bowl of gumbo?" Ray lifted the lid off a big pot. He held the lid in one hand and twitched the thumb of his other hand toward the back room.
"No thanks." The gumbo smelled good, but he was too worried to be hungry, and Ray's weird behavior wasn't helping.
Before he could ask what the hell was going on, Ray got back in his face. "Jason Corlette," he whispered.
Daniel caught on. Jason must be here asking about the fire. He nodded to show he got the message. Jason wasn't a bad guy, but everyone knew he was the sharpest deputy in the department, which made him the last lawman he wanted to see.
"Did you hear about the cabin that burned over on Bayou Perdu?" Ray poured a cup of coffee. "The paper says the propane blew. The owner was inside. A guy named Frank Palmer. You know who I'm talking about? He'd stop in sometimes, pick up some gumbo to go."
"I might know him if I saw him."
"It was one of them tragic things," Ray continued. "Palmer was getting married next weekend. This woman he was going to marry, she's already a widow. And now her fiancé, he's gone too. Man, you got to feel for her." Ray wiped the counter with a dirty rag and put the coffee down. "You didn't hear about this?"
"Yeah, I did. I ran into Bill Reese and he asked me about it but I couldn't help him." Daniel spoke loud and clear so that Jason could hear every word. "I never go over there. That water's posted, and I got nothing to do with oysters these days. I'm working on the old man's boat." The coffee tasted as if it had been sitting on the burner for a week. He pushed the cup away. "This stuff sucks."
"Hey, there's nothing wrong with my coffee."
"Sorry. I didn't mean no harm. I've been sick to my stomach. You know how you get sick and everything tastes off."
Out of the corner of his eye Daniel saw Jason Corlette duck to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe. He stared into his coffee cup and wished he'd left when he had the chance.
"Maybe you got a bad oyster?" Jason took a stool a couple down and spun around to face him, like they were buddies hanging out together.
"Hey man, how're you doing?" He played along. "How's the deputy business?"
"Keeps me busy. Hey, I'm sorry about Jimmy Orielle. He was kin to your mother wasn't he?"
"She's related to half the parish, but thanks." Jimmy had died Saturday morning. The doctors said the third day was crucial for burn victims, and he hadn't made it. The fact that he got burned trying to hotwire someone's Jeep made it worse. He was a little wild sometimes, but not a bad kid. He would have outgrown it if he'd lived a little longer.
"I heard Ray telling you about the cabin fire." Jason said. "I'm here looking for someone who might have seen what happened."
"I already told Bill Reese, you're not looking for me. I never go over there. And last couple of days, I've been sick, not going anywhere." He was pretty sure Jason hadn't noticed anything funny about his reaction, but he needed to be real careful and keep acting natural and try to find out how much Jason knew. "We had some weather last week. Did the cabin get hit by lightning?"
"The fire was arson."
"Goddamn, that's terrible." They knew. He didn't have to feel bad about not saying anything.
"So, you remember Lucille? Little brunette, nice legs, she answers the phone at headquarters."
"Maybe," Daniel said, puzzled by the change in topic.
"She thought Palmer's name sounded familiar, and so she checked her old notes. Sure enough, he called about you, not even two weeks ago."
"Me? No way."
"He said you were taking oysters from posted water up by his cabin."
"It wasn't me." He really felt sick now. "I didn't know the guy, and he didn't know me. This morning is the first I've heard his name, and that's 'cause his cabin blew up."
"So how do you know that it blew up?"
"Ray just told me it was the propane. You must of heard him. What the hell is this?" He acted indignant, an innocent man wrongly accused.
"I'm looking for a witness," Jason said. "I don't care where you get oysters."
"Hey man, I told you, no oysters, and I don't know nothing about the fire."
"So, when I arrived, your truck was outside, but you weren't around, and your boat was gone. I hear a boat come in, and a few minutes later, you walk in. Don't bullshit me Daniel."
"What you heard was me motoring over to the winch. What I been doing is putting my boat up. I ain't going to be using it for a while, because I'm going out with the old man."
Jason leaned back and stretched his legs out, settling in. "It's not just the sheriff," he said. "The New Orleans cops, they're interested, too. They're helping us with the investigation."
"So what?"
"So, when we tell them about Palmer's phone call, they're going to think you torched the cabin in some kind of retaliation. Me?" Jason pointed to his own chest. "I don't see it that way."
"I didn't torch nothing. Who the hell are you, accusing me of that kind of shit?" This time, his indignation was genuine.
"No accusation, I'm just warning you how it looks bad. Palmer reports you poaching near his cabin. Two weeks go by, his cabin burns down, and he's dead inside it."
Daniel kept quiet, trying to figure out how much Jason knew and how much he was guessing. No way Palmer gave them his name, but he could have caught the name of his boat.
"I know you, and I know you take oysters from posted water. That's between you and the boys from Wildlife and Fisheries." Jason waved his hand like he was brushing away a pesky fly. "I don't see you torching any cabins. The New Orleans cops, they don't know you. They won't understand the way you look at things. So, you have a choice. You can talk to me or you can talk to them."
"I don't have to talk to no one. Last I heard this was still a free country." Daniel threw a buck on the counter. "For the coffee," he told Ray, who was standing there looking stupid.
He slid off the stool and stomped out the door, praying that he'd make it to his truck without feeling Jason's big hand on his shoulder. He pulled out of the parking lot, safe for now, but he'd better catch up with the old man. He'd be in deep shit if Jason got there first and found out no one knew anything about him joining the crew.
CHAPTER 10
Claire pushed through a heavy revolving door into a stunning lobby. Light streamed through stained glass windows high on the back wall, marble tiled the floors and elaborate brass geometry framed the elevators. She told the man at the information desk that she had an appointment with Paul Gilbert and, after signing in, asked if Frank Lloyd Wright had been involved in the design of the building.
"The architect was one of Wright's disciples." He gave her a quick history of the building, speaking with the zeal of a man who is delighted to have found a fellow enthusiast. "The local preservation society begins one of its tours with this building. The next one starts at two-thirty."
"I don't think I'll be finished in time." Paul had told her to schedule an hour. "But I'd rather be going on the tour." She'd rather be changing Dorian's litter box. Waiting upstairs were two policemen and a lawyer, all of whom probably thought she'd been engaged to Frank Palmer.
Despite her taking an extra half pill, apprehension made her hands clammy. The bubble waited, threatening to close in if they started talking
about... What? She couldn't predict her panic attacks. Finding the burned cabin triggered one, but learning Frank's body was inside hadn't. Months of counseling hadn't helped her find the cause. Still, she dreaded this meeting. Maybe she should take the other half.
Paul's offices were on the fifth floor. The elevator opened into a reception area, less dramatic but equally as elegant as the downstairs lobby. An attractive, middle-aged woman looked up from her computer monitor and smiled a welcome. "You must be Claire. I'm Suzanne. Let me show you to the small conference room. They're waiting."
"Nice to meet you, Suzanne." She forced a return smile. "Is there a ladies' room?"
"Down that hall, second door on the right. I'll tell them you're here."
Claire locked the bathroom door and leaned against it, taking slow deep breaths, telling herself there was nothing to fear. She swallowed the other half pill, replaced the lipstick she'd chewed off, and walked back to the reception desk.
"I'm ready now."
Paul, Lieutenant Breton and a nice looking dark-haired man she'd never seen before sat at a small conference table. They stood when she walked in, Lieutenant Breton the last on his feet. The stranger introduced himself as Mike Robinson. Paul pulled out the empty chair next to his. The two policemen sat across the table. Behind them a window showed blue sky.
"Captain Robinson heads the police department's homicide division, Claire," Paul murmured as he seated her.
Homicide? Had Frank been murdered? Before she could ask, Paul offered her something to drink. She requested water and took a sip to moisten her dry mouth. Everyone was watching her as if waiting for her to say something. Deliberately she looked out the window and imagined waves rising from the sky and rolling across her field of vision.
"Why do you want to talk to me, Captain Robinson?" She knew the answer, but she wanted more time to compose herself, more time for that last bit of Xanax to kick in.
"We're investigating the death of Frank Palmer. What can you tell us about him?"
"Frank hired my company to restore a cottage he owned. I was looking for him Saturday morning. I found the burned cabin and reported it to the local authorities. When I saw the picture of Frank's driver on the news, I called them again. Deputy Corlette asked me to come to his office and be interviewed. I understand you have the tape of our conversation." Her statement probably sounded rehearsed. It was.
"Why were you looking for Mr. Palmer?"
"There was a problem with a check. His bank covered it, but still..." Mentioning the rumor about being engaged to Frank would only lend it credence. Let him bring it up.
"You drove all that way about a check the bank had covered?"
"I also wanted to see the cabin. Frank was planning to fix it up. He'd asked me to prepare a cost estimate." She caught the flicker of disbelief on Paul's face and added, "He didn't want anyone else to know. It was going to be a surprise for his fishing buddies."
Captain Robinson made a note. "Mr. Palmer had his own construction company, but he hired yours?"
"His company works on large commercial projects. Authentic Restorations specializes in historic houses, small projects like the cottage we're restoring for Frank." She relaxed, comfortable with this topic. "He won it in a bet, and then he learned it was dilapidated. He couldn't tear it down because it had been designated historic. The previous owner had been trying to sell it for years. Frank planned to get the last laugh by fixing it up and selling it for a good price. He hired us to do the work."
"I wondered about Frank's sudden interest in historic preservation," Paul said, "but I thought he'd bought that place."
"Our typical client is a young couple with a tight budget," Claire continued. "Frank was different. He kept close track of expenses, but he could afford to do everything right--and did."
"You met Mr. Palmer when he hired your firm?" Captain Robinson said.
"We met at The Children's Home last spring when I spoke at a seminar on non-traditional careers for women. It was part of their program for adolescent girls, which Frank sponsors. Afterwards, he came up and introduced himself. Later--I think it was the third week in August--he called and asked me to look at this cottage. He liked my proposal and signed the contract. We began work last month."
"You must be aware that people believe you and Mr. Palmer planned to marry."
"People are mistaken." Paul was one of those people. She looked for his reaction but saw none.
"So where did everybody get this crazy idea?" Lieutenant Breton, who'd been slouched in his chair with his eyes half closed, spoke for the first time.
Before she could respond, Paul put a restraining hand on her arm. "You're asking Claire to speculate. While she isn't, strictly speaking, a client, I volunteered to sit in during this interview, and I always advise against speculation." He removed his hand. "You should do what you think best, Claire, but the wise course is usually to answer the specific question and stick to what you know is true. You'd agree with that wouldn't you, Mike?"
Captain Robinson nodded agreement, but he didn't retract his partner's question.
"I don't know," Claire said. Without Paul's intervention, she would have told them that she thought Frank was the source, and then had to explain why. And maybe she was wrong. She'd be here all afternoon, speculating. Thank you, Paul.
"How would you describe your relationship with Frank Palmer?" Captain Robinson said.
"Cordial. A business relationship, but cordial." As she spoke, Claire felt everyone's eyes on her.
Paul was watching her carefully, without expression. What must he be thinking?
Lieutenant Breton's hound-dog face conveyed a bored contempt. Well, she didn't have much use for him either.
Captain Robinson's blue gaze was thoughtful. He didn't miss a thing. If she were a criminal, she wouldn't want him investigating her. "Did you consider him a friend?" he said.
His question caught her by surprise. She didn't, but she was reluctant to say so in front of Paul. She settled on a white lie. "If we'd had time to become better acquainted, I think we'd have become friends."
"Didn't the two of you go out socially?"
"No."
"Not even an occasional dinner date?" Captain Robinson's attention never wavered.
She glanced at Paul, who was staring down at the table. One evening when she and Frank were eating dinner at Mother's, Paul had stopped by the table to say hello and stayed to chat until their food arrived. He must have mentioned it to the police.
"Only working dinners," she said. "When you're restoring an old house, especially one that's in bad shape, you really don't know what you have until you open the walls. Friday afternoons, Frank and I would meet on site to evaluate the situation, explore alternatives, and discuss plans for the next week. If it got late, we continued our discussion over dinner."
"People who saw you together might assume your relationship went beyond business?"
Once again, Captain Robinson made the statement a question. Deputy Corlette had used the same technique. Maybe all policemen did. She found it annoying.
"Two single adults, working closely together," he continued. "It would have been natural for a relationship to develop?"
"Our relationship was purely business."
"Your social engagements with Frank Palmer amounted to a few after-work dinners?"
"No social engagements, four working dinners since we've been working on his cottage."
"Who paid for the meals?" Lieutenant Breton said.
"Frank did. If he hadn't picked up the check, I would have billed the project. He knew that. Pay now or pay later. Those were working dinners." The police could ask their question as many different ways as they wanted. Her answer wouldn't change.
"You drove down to Mr. Palmer's cabin Saturday morning?"
"I did, and Deputy Corlette already asked about that. It's all on the tape."
"We just want to be sure you didn't forget anything."
"Why did you wash your car?" Lieutenant B
reton said.
"It was covered with mud." She looked to Paul, silently asking how many more stupid questions she'd have to answer, but she didn't really care. The extra meds had kicked in and she was floating a few inches above the table.
"When was the last time you saw Frank Palmer?" Captain Robinson moved on.
"He drove me to the airport Monday afternoon."
"Do your clients usually drive you around?" Lieutenant Breton said.
"Did he drive or did Hatch?" Captain Robinson said.
"Frank drove. He wanted to talk to me, and he knew I was going to be gone for a week."
"Did he appear to be under stress?"
She remembered the scene about the fish camp, but that was several days earlier. Frank had seemed fine on the trip to the airport. "Nothing unusual. Construction is a high-stress business." She shrugged. "I'm not sure I knew Frank well enough to judge his moods."
"I have another appointment," Paul said. "You told me to schedule an hour. We're running over." His statement brought the session to an end.
"If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch." Captain Robinson said. "Thank you for your excellent coffee, Paul."
"I hope you don't mind if I let Suzanne show you to the elevator."
"Not at all."
After the policemen left Claire said, "Thank you for keeping my foot out of my mouth." Paul looked startled and she clarified. "Speculating. Please, let me pay you for your time."
"Absolutely not. It's all part of my job as Frank's executor." He glanced at the clock. "There are additional considerations involving the estate that I'd like to discuss with you, but time is running short. Perhaps you'd prefer to meet at a later date"
"What? Oh, the cottage. I wasn't thinking." The pills had transformed the terrifying bubble into a soft cocoon, warm and welcoming, but not conducive to making business decisions. "You're right. I'd rather wait a few days."
"Whenever you're ready. May I call you a cab?"
His receptionist made the call while he walked her to the elevator.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 7