Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  Before she stepped in, Claire said, "I'm sorry. Very sorry." And she really was. She was sorry that his friend had died, sorry that she might be making him feel worse by insisting she and Frank hadn't been engaged, sorry that she'd taken up so much of his time. Paul seemed like a nice man, and she was sorry to burden him. She'd write him a thank you note the minute she returned to the office--no, not her office, home. She was tired and a little fuzzy.

  The meeting hadn't been the expected ordeal. Captain Robinson was a pleasant surprise, well-spoken and courteous. He'd introduced himself as Mike, but Captain fit him better. He and Paul were an interesting contrast. Both were tall, dark-haired, nice looking men and about the same age--early forties, she'd guess. Both were intelligent and articulate, but otherwise very different: the urbane lawyer versus the observant investigator. Sloppy rude Lieutenant Breton had been the odd man out.

  When the taxi dropped her off at the estate entrance, Claire saw that the pedestrian gate was open again and made a mental note to speak to the Clarke's housekeeper about setting the lock. She ambled down the winding drive, stopping to inhale the heady scent of a late-blooming gardenia. Living behind the Clarke mansion was like having her own private park. She'd been lucky to find such a wonderful rental. The moment she opened her front door, the phone started ringing. It's shrill tone shattered her hazy calm.

  The calls had begun that morning, soon after Lieutenant Breton left. Frank's friends, people she'd never met, offered their condolences and asked if there was anything they could do for her. People she and Tom had known, doctors who'd worked with him and people she hadn't seen since his funeral, were calling too. At first, she'd tried to explain. Of course, she was saddened by Frank's death, but there was never any romance, no marriage plans. The news stories were inaccurate. He was a client, not a lover.

  Reactions ranged from embarrassed laughter to incredulity, and Claire realized her untenable position. If Frank were alive, when time passed with no marriage, everyone would see the truth, no matter who said what. But he was dead, and she couldn't prove a negative. After several uncomfortable conversations, she gave up and let the answering machine screen her calls.

  She waited to hear this message, expecting another stranger's voice, but this time it was her mother, and she sounded upset.

  CHAPTER 11

  The moment Claire hung up from soothing her outraged mother, the phone rang again. She recognized Captain Robinson's voice on the answering machine and grabbed the receiver.

  "What do you want?" Before he could respond, she lit into him. "I just spent half an hour on the phone with my mother, trying to reassure her that I'm not on my way to jail. Was it absolutely necessary for Lieutenant Breton to call her--and the Ryans? Why did he have to call them?"

  "It wasn't our intention to upset your mother. We were verifying your statement."

  "You were verifying her statement. When my mother said neighbors had hosted a party for her, Lieutenant Breton asked for their names and contact information.

  "Your partner embarrassed my mother. Lucy Ryan will probably tell all of Centreville about the call from the New Orleans police.

  "Why did you feel it necessary to verify something as innocuous as my mother's birthday party? And why are homicide detectives investigating Frank's death?"

  He ignored both questions. "I'd like to talk with you again. You and Mr. Gilbert, if that's your preference. It shouldn't take long."

  "I've already imposed on Paul's good will today."

  "Tomorrow would be fine, but I thought you might want to get it over with."

  "I do. And there's no reason to bother Paul." She agreed to meet him in his office at five-thirty.

  When she arrived, he was on the phone. He waved her toward a straight-backed chair facing his desk, held up one finger and told the person on the other end that his guest had arrived. Guest?

  That was not how she saw it. She folded her hands in her lap, crossed her ankles like a wayward pupil called to the principal's office and looked around.

  His office walls were barren of pictures and painted that unfortunate green someone in government had decided was restful. Fixed windows looked out on the brick wall of a neighboring building. An electric coffeemaker, bottled water and a stack of Styrofoam cups sat on the windowsill, the only signs of human occupancy. His desk was clear except for a stacked inbox-outbox, full but not overflowing, and the phone.

  She couldn't imagine working in such a sterile environment. Her office was controlled chaos with stacks of paper covering the horizontal surfaces and color-coded Post-Its stuck to the wall behind her desk. It was also light and airy, with three windows that opened and potted plants on the sills. And despite the untidy appearance, she knew exactly where everything was.

  "Thank you for coming in." He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "I'd like to start by clarifying the situation. You're here at my invitation, of your own free will. You haven't been charged with a crime, but we're going to discuss events that could lead to criminal charges. Anything you say could be used against you in a court of law. You can refuse to answer any question if, in your opinion, the answer could be incriminating. If, at any point, you decide you want a lawyer present, we'll adjourn until you can arrange counsel."

  Paul had warned against speculating, and now this policeman warned about incriminating herself. Criminals were warned, not witnesses. She wasn't a criminal. She squared her shoulders. "Take notes. Tape it. I don't care."

  "We're working with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office."

  "I've already explained. There was no way to report the fire immediately, and so I called from the beach. I can't believe that's a crime--certainly not one worthy of all this attention."

  He looked at her for a long moment. "If the fire was out, there was no urgency. For all you knew, it had already been reported."

  "Thank you for an excellent excuse. I'll use it if I ever talk to Deputy Corlette again." She tried a smile, which he didn't return.

  "Deputy Corlette was under the impression that you called as soon as you reached a phone."

  She started to say she'd never said anything about the timeframe but reconsidered.

  "A witness saw you exiting your driveway shortly before seven Saturday morning," he said. "You reported the fire at one forty-five, almost seven hours later. Driving time would account for no more than two or three of those hours."

  "I was at the cabin for a while, looking around, trying to use the boat's radio. I got lost on the way back to the highway. I was a filthy mess. When I got to the beach, I took a shower at the public bathhouse and bought new clothes. Then I called."

  His expression said he found her explanation inadequate, but she didn't expand it. She hadn't mentioned her panic attack before and now it was too late. The truth would sound like a made-up excuse. Besides, it was none of his business. She wasn't going to tell him about her personal problems, and he couldn't prove she hadn't been lost for hours. It was a standoff.

  "As I mentioned, we're working with Lafourche Parish." His tone stayed casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched her. "Their investigators have determined that the cabin fire was arson."

  "Arson? You mean someone set the cabin on fire? On purpose?" Her voice tailed off as a flutter of anxiety tightened her throat.

  The children Tom rescued had built a bonfire of toys and newspapers on their bedroom floor. The little boy admitted it afterwards but he would never say why. The arson investigator said he wasn't a bad kid. Four-year-olds often play with matches.

  She stared out the window and imagined waves, slow and implacable, washing up onto the brick wall, white foam on red bricks. She slowed her breath to match their rhythm, inhaling with one wave and exhaling with the next.

  "Are you all right?" His question broke the spell.

  She met his gaze. "Frank is dead. The arsonist is a murderer."

  He frowned, as if considering this possibility for the first time. "We don't know if that's the
case or not. Mr. Palmer was dead before the fire started."

  "Thank God, Frank didn't die in the fire." She hadn't meant to speak aloud, but the words were out and she couldn't take them back.

  "What difference does it make if he died in the fire or before the fire?"

  She could only shake her head. He handed her a Kleenex, and she realized that tears were running down her face.

  "Did you set the fire, Ms. Marshall?"

  "No."

  "Then why are you relieved that the fire didn't kill Frank Palmer?"

  "It's a terrible way to die." There would be no more tears. She was past crying. "Do you have any other questions?"

  "Yes, but first would you like a cup of coffee? A glass of water?" He gestured toward the windowsill.

  "No, thank you. But please go ahead."

  When he stood and turned his back, her hand slid into her purse, found the vial and removed a pill. She waited until he was pouring his coffee and swallowed it dry, nothing extra like this afternoon, just her evening pill a little ahead of schedule.

  He sat back down. "Your mother said you cut your visit short because of a problem with work you were doing for Mr. Palmer."

  "That's right."

  Claire thought about the excuse she'd given her mother. She wondered if the police were already looking for the non-existent problem subcontractor and asking the phone company for a list of numbers called from her mother's house. Frank's death had transformed a little white lie into a possibly criminal misstatement. She'd already told Captain Robinson about the bad check. In as few words as possible, she told him about the telephone conversations that made her decide to return early and confront Frank.

  "Why didn't you mention this before?"

  "I wasn't sure Frank was the source of the marriage rumors. I'm still not." Her smile was rueful. "I didn't want to speculate."

  She waited for him to ask, who else might it have been, a question she'd been asking herself. Instead, he asked about her activities Friday afternoon and evening after she returned to New Orleans. She answered truthfully but couldn't provide any collaborating evidence after she picked Dorian up at the kennel. She'd treated herself to dinner out because it had been such a lousy day. She'd been too immersed in her own thoughts to notice anyone, but she thought more than one person had waited on her. The restaurant didn't take credit cards. She'd paid in cash and not kept the bill. She'd gone to a movie but remembered little more than the plot and the names of the stars.

  "You're just going to have to believe me. Why would I lie?"

  "Thank you for coming in. If you think of anything else, please call me." He stood and handed her his business card.

  Her fingertips slid across the raised lettering, hard and slippery on the soft paper, and a torrent of memory washed the present away. She was back in the bungalow where she and Tom had lived. The policeman who'd brought the terrible news was talking. She wanted him to leave, but he kept talking.

  "We need you to come downtown and identify your husband's body," he'd said. "We know this is difficult, but it has to be done. Your husband was a hero, Mrs. Marshall. He saved the lives of two little children.

  "Call when you're ready, and I'll meet you at the morgue." He handed her a business card.

  She had reached out to take it, and her fingertips slid across the raised lettering...

  "Ms. Marshall, are you all right?" Captain Robinson was beside her, a supporting hand on her elbow.

  "I'm fine, thank you, just tired." She walked out of his office on legs that were only a little shaky.

  When Claire returned home, the light on her message machine was blinking rapidly. Again. She checked to be sure neither her mother nor Jack had called. They hadn't, but the couple who'd bought the bungalow had left their prayers that God give her strength to face this latest tragedy. They were nice people who'd written her a note after they moved in, saying how much they enjoyed the house, what a nice job she'd done restoring it.

  She had talked Tom into buying that bungalow when they moved to New Orleans for his residency. The evenings and weekends he stayed at the hospital, she had worked on the house. She pulled up old linoleum and found heart pine floors, removed layers of paint and refinished the old cypress woodwork. She'd met Jack when she hired his company to help with the heavy lifting.

  Selling the house was supposed to finance the move to New York City. Instead, the money went into her new business.

  She poured a glass of wine and carried it out onto the porch. She wasn't supposed to drink while she was on the meds, but one glass couldn't hurt. Dorian had finished eating and sat on the top step watching swifts glide and dive, their dark swoops silhouetted against the sky and then invisible in the shadows. Above the trees, lavender clouds floated in a dark purple sky. The peaceful setting belied the ugliness of a world where people committed arson and murder.

  Captain Robinson hadn't answered any of her questions, not directly, but now she understood why a homicide detective was investigating Frank's death.

  He hadn't died in the fire. Captain Robinson had asked why that mattered, but she couldn't explain without telling him about the awful day Tom died, and the lost days that followed, the long walks that, no matter the original destination, always brought her to the burned house. She would stand on the sidewalk and imagine that things had ended differently and Tom was still with her.

  In a way, he was.

  Walking down the street, she would glimpse him from the corner of her eye, but when she looked again, it would be a tall, dark-haired man she didn't know. An old gray Corolla would drive around the corner, and she'd peer inside, but the driver's face was never familiar. In a crowded restaurant, she'd hear Tom's laugh and spin around, heart in her throat, to search a room full of strangers. Each disappointment brought a fresh sense of loss and heightened anxiety.

  Eventually the sightings stopped--she couldn't remember Tom's face unless she looked at his picture--but her anxiety intensified, and the panic attacks began. The first time, she'd been sure she was dying.

  Death comes once, but panic attacks strike again and again without warning. Recovering alcoholics aren't the only people who have to live one day at a time.

  Reminders of how Tom died triggered her anxiety. She still couldn't see what hidden fear lurked there. Visiting his grave hadn't provided any clue, but she was determined to figure it out. She'd been doing better until Frank's death scraped the scabs off, and she wasn't going to give up now. Of course, how a person died mattered.

  I should have asked how Frank died.

  Captain Robinson probably thought she was a cold and uncaring person, indifferent to the death of this man she was supposedly marrying.

  No, it was worse than that. Someone had killed Frank and set the cabin on fire to destroy the evidence. Captain Robinson thought she was that someone. When he asked if she burned the cabin, he was really asking if she'd killed Frank. That's why he'd wanted to question her again.

  As if he sensed her distress, Dorian jumped onto the swing and settled onto her lap. The purring cat was a comforting presence, warm, soft and non-judgmental. People would react differently. When those strangers who'd called with condolences learned the cabin fire was arson, their sympathy would turn to suspicion.

  Part of it was her fault. She'd overreacted to everything--the rumors, the burned cabin, even Captain Robinson's business card. If only she hadn't come back early. If only she hadn't been so preoccupied Friday night. Or had just gone to a restaurant that took credit cards.

  If only she hadn't suffered a panic attack. If only she hadn't taken too many pills.

  "If only." The most worthless phrase in the English language.

  Forget if only. She'd gotten herself in this mess, and she'd better get herself out.

  She closed her eyes and saw again the blackened pilings rising from the ashes. The smell of smoke and dampness of ground fog caught in her throat as if they'd followed her home. She felt the charred rubble crunching under her feet, wat
er dripping from the trees, the cold. The clearing and everything in it had been cold. She'd walked through the ashes, rummaged around in them with her bare hands and felt no warmth. Blackened spars lay around the clearing, none of them smoldering. The smoke smelled old, like rotten ham.

  That fire had been out for a long time, which meant the cabin had burned while she was in Michigan. If she could prove that, the police would have to acknowledge her innocence, leave her alone and go find the real criminal.

  An old wooden building would have made quite a blaze. The smoke would have been visible for miles. There were no other cabins nearby, but Frank had mentioned buying gumbo from a café across the bayou. He was going to take her there for lunch after they looked at the cabin.

  She'd start with the café.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday, October 19, 1993

  Daniel woke at the usual five thirty, but instead of getting up, lay in bed feeling sorry for himself. His head hurt, thanks to the six-pack he'd consumed while watching the Raiders eke one out over the Broncos. He'd put twenty dollars on the Raiders, but the Broncos beat the spread. His money was gone. And today, he was going out on the family shrimp boat.

  Yesterday morning, he'd driven straight from Ray's down to the docks, ready to jump onboard and get the hell out of Dodge. He'd been surprised to find his father there alone. "I decided to join the crew," he'd said. "Where's everyone? I thought you were going out this afternoon."

  "One of the diesels seized up. Sammy's got it. Lucky it didn't happen offshore."

  "Ain't nothing lucky about being stuck here." He'd freaked out, still thinking the killer might be looking for him. "When's it going to be fixed?"

  "Sammy says tomorrow noon. If you're in such a big hurry, you can pick it up."

  Picking it up meant going into town, and he didn't want to do that. "Why don't you send Charlie? His truck is bigger."

  "You want to join the crew, but the first thing I tell you to do, you try to weasel out." He turned back to the rope he was coiling.