"At first I was thinking witness intimidation on her part," Mike said, "but she was unarmed." He raked his hair off his forehead. "Going down there was such a dumb thing to do, I'm wondering if she's not telling the truth."
Corlette was sure she hadn't known Palmer's body was in the cabin. Last night, she'd been shocked by the arson finding. Or was she shocked that they'd figured it out?
"Try this scenario." Breton leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "She and Hatch are a team. While she's safely alibied in Michigan, he kills Palmer and torches the cabin. She drives down Saturday to make sure everything went as planned. That's what took her so long."
Mike had been expecting him to resurrect cherchez la femme. "We know she was there only because she initiated contact with Corlette. Why would she do that?"
"To explain her tire tracks. She was his fiancée. She knows we're going to check her out."
"Maybe, but where's Hatch? What happened to Palmer's Jeep? Lafourche Parish thinks it was booby-trapped." Mike wasn't comfortable with these two loose ends, which might well be one big loose end.
"Did we ever find out who Hatch called?"
"A payphone down at the port. No help there." No help anywhere. He returned to his current priority, learning more about the victim. "What did Palmer's secretary have to say?"
"Jeanette Harlow," Breton rolled his eyes, "Her mother named her after the silent movie star. Now there's irony. The woman could talk paint off the wall. First I have to listen to Palmer's dentist bitching about kids breaking into his office looking for drugs--twice in one week, he says. Bobby Austin wants to talk about robberies at his branches out in the suburbs--like that has anything to do with us. Top it off, Jeanette Harlow wants to share every thought that has ever passed through her tiny brain."
"What did she think of Palmer?"
"He walked on water." Breton grimaced. "Her job was her life, she's worked for him for ten years and can't imagine ever working for anyone else. She's not going to say anything that might reflect badly on her sainted boss."
"Not intentionally, but she might say something useful. Talk to her again. Ask about the business, the people Palmer worked with. Someone had a motive for murder."
"Vernon stopped me in the hall, told me we should be looking harder at Claire Marshall."
"I'll talk to her again, but not tomorrow. It's Palmer's funeral." He pointed at Breton. "Wear your best suit; you're going. And don't say anything to anyone about the autopsy results. We're keeping them quiet until after the funeral."
"Is Vernon protecting the delicate sensibilities of our victim's friends?"
"He doesn't know yet," Mike said. "This is my decision. I'm in no hurry to let our killer know we've figured it out." Given the lack of leads, their best hope was that he or she would become overconfident and make a mistake.
"How about letting me get out of the building before you give Vernon the bad news?"
"Go now," Mike said, and reached for the phone.
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday, October 20, 1993
Claire called the subs working on Frank's cottage and requested invoices for work to date plus written estimates of what it would cost to finish. Paul Gilbert would have to decide whether to sell the cottage as is, complete the restoration before putting it on the market, or do something in between. She wanted to give him options with dollar figures attached.
At ten, Brian Laurens came by to sign the contract for his house--really his great-great-grandfather's house. He was getting married in eight months, and Claire had promised him that, if they started now, the old family home would be restored to its original glory in time for him to carry his bride across the threshold. The thought brought a smile to her face. This was her new favorite project. It would be a big project for Authentic Restorations, as dilapidated as Frank's cottage but larger and a more complicated job.
After Brian left, she checked in with Jack, who was working on a porch addition in Lakeview, grabbed a fast food lunch and drove over the Laurens house. She hammered an Authentic Restorations sign in the front yard, where the world--or at least the neighbors--could see it. They'd be happy to learn the house was going to be restored.
She began by measuring the perimeter of the structure and drew the shell. Then she walked through the interior, sketching the layout. Placing the rooms within the building was like fitting pieces into a puzzle. Once she had the overall arrangement, she measured each room. Transferring her sketch onto graph paper would have to wait. It was time to go home and dress for Frank's funeral. She'd thought about not going, but had decided to do what she would have done if there were no marriage rumors, attend the service and quietly pay her respects.
Most days Claire clipped her hair back from her face, applied moisturizer, and swiped a lipstick across her mouth. That done, she was ready to face the world. But this afternoon, appearance mattered. She applied concealer to the circles under her eyes, foundation and eyeliner but no mascara. If a flashback to Tom's funeral brought tears, mascara would run and leave her looking like a raccoon. Lipstick and a bit of blusher finished the job. The careful attention to make-up made her feel like an actress preparing for the stage. It was an apt analogy. The newspapers and television were still describing her as Frank's fiancée. People would be looking at her.
Last night she'd rummaged through her closet, looking for something to wear. She hadn't regained all the weight she lost after Tom died, and most of her dress clothes were too big. She'd settled on a navy silk dress with a matching jacket long enough to hide the extra fabric bagging around her hips. Its green and white ribbon trim would keep her from looking as if she was in mourning.
She put it on and checked her reflection in the mirror. Dreary. On an impulse, she rummaged through her jewelry box for the diamond and pearl earrings Tom had given her when they married. She'd had to stop wearing her wedding ring because it irritated her finger, but she could wear the earrings.
Because parking near the cathedral would probably be impossible, she took the streetcar down Saint Charles and walked the last few blocks. By the time she arrived, the sanctuary was half-full and filling rapidly. Frank's peers, the social and business elite of New Orleans, had come to pay their last respects. The people who had called and left messages on her phone would be here. Paul Gilbert sat in the front pew by the center aisle, and Jeanette huddled at the other end, her shoulders shaking with occasional sobs. Bobby Austin sat across the aisle, alone in the front pew with a woman, probably his wife. Lieutenant Breton was alone in the last pew on the right.
She chose a seat two rows up on the left, knelt and bowed her head to pray for Frank's eternal soul and for the strength to remain calm. An usher stopped by her pew.
"Excuse me, Ms. Marshall, would you like to join Mr. and Mrs. Austin?"
"No, thank you."
People sitting nearby overheard the usher's question. Several turned around, and then others noticed. She sensed their curious eyes on her face, but she ignored them and looked at the lovely rose window above the altar. Frank and I were not engaged, not lovers, not anything. She touched the earrings Tom had given her.
A tall young woman, made taller by stiletto heels and hair piled on top of her head, hurried up the aisle. When she reached the first pew, Paul motioned for her to sit between him and Jeanette. She whispered something in his ear and settled back, staring straight ahead. The hum of conversation became a loud buzz and the congregation's attention shifted to the newcomer.
Claire was relieved to have the spotlight on someone else, but she felt sorry for the young woman, who must be feeling gazes from a hundred eyes boring into her back. Her position in the first pew meant she was a close friend, or family. She must be Annalisa.
Frank had described himself as alone in the world, but his obituary said he was survived by a nineteen-year-old daughter. Something dreadful must have happened to make him disown his only child, and now she'd come to his funeral. Claire's heart ached for the father and daughter who had never
reconciled and now never would.
Bobby Austin walked back, sat beside her and placed a consoling hand over hers.
"Marie and I understand if you prefer to be alone, Claire, but please know that we share your grief."
"I'm sorry that Frank died, but we were no more than friends." Less than friends, but she wanted to be tactful. "The marriage rumors aren't true."
"But, Claire..." He looked bewildered.
She felt guilty. Bobby was a nice man, and that was his best friend's coffin in front of the altar. She tried to soften the impact of her denial. "Thank you for your kindness. And please extend my condolences to Annalisa."
"Annalisa's here?"
"Isn't that who just came in? Sitting beside Paul Gilbert?"
"No." Bobby started to say something more but stopped. "If you change your mind, Marie and I have a place for you." He gave her hand a parting squeeze and returned to his seat.
The acolytes came forward to light the candles, and the organist switched from gentle background to the opening notes of the processional. The priest stepped forward, and gossip gave way to the funeral service.
I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord; he that believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever lives and believes in me shall never die.
The eulogy reinforced the theme of loss and redemption. The priest opened his arms wide to address the congregation. "When God, in His wisdom, took Frank Palmer's family from him, Frank embraced a larger family, the troubled children of New Orleans."
The cadences of the his voice rose and fell as he recited a catalogue of Frank's good deeds, the years he'd worked with The Children's Home and his more recent work with a shelter for homeless veterans. Listening, Claire grieved for a good man's life cut short, she was sorry, but she felt no personal loss. The rest of the service passed quickly. She watched dry-eyed as the pallbearers carried the casket out of the church. The choir sang of Christ's sacrifice and the promise of eternal life, the priest blessed the congregation, and the ordeal was over.
Claire's seat near the back put her in the first wave of mourners leaving the church. She stood for a moment at the top of the stone steps, blinking as her eyes became accustomed to the bright sunshine.
"Claire! Hey, Claire!"
She turned toward the voice, and a flashbulb exploded in her face. A man shoved a microphone in her face.
"Can you tell us..." he began.
"No, oh no." She turned around and fought her way back through the exiting crowd, seeking sanctuary in the cathedral.
"Let me help you, Ms. Marshall." It was the usher who had asked her about moving to the front pew.
He kept a firm hold on her arm as he cleared a path up the side aisle and guided her into a corridor beside the altar, down a flight of stairs, through a maze of empty hallways to a second flight of stairs that brought them back up to street level. He opened a door into a walled garden behind the cathedral and pointed to a gate. It would put her on Bayard Street.
She thanked him and hurried away, walking toward the river and keeping her head down so that no one could see her face. On the far side of Jackson Square, she bought a soda from a street vendor and carried it to the small park atop the levee. There, she leaned against the fence and rolled the cold can against her flushed cheek. She was sweating, but from exertion, not panic.
Below her, the Mississippi flowed dark with silt. An eddy swirled back around, carrying a milk carton and bits of wood destined to remain in New Orleans. Farther out, small pleasure boats zoomed around like so many water bugs, their random zigs and zags a skittering counterpoint to the purposeful tugs and heavily laden barges. Incongruous among the modern vessels, a red and white paddle wheeler carried a load of tourists up river. The jubilant cry of a Dixieland trumpet called to her from its upper deck.
"Play for Tom," she whispered, "and for Frank, and for all the people who die too young."
Tom never finished his residency, never became the doctor who was going to help poor children grow into healthy adults. The hospital could find another doctor, but she and Tom would never have the home and family they'd dreamed of. Their years together had been spent working toward a tomorrow that never came, and now he was lost to her more thoroughly than she would have thought possible. The tears she had vowed not to shed wet her cheeks. The waves she counted on the river's surface were real ones, and the bubble hovered but never closed in.
When fading light told her it was time to leave, she walked back through the tourist heart of the French Quarter. Its tawdry energy provided a welcome counter to the darkness that had enveloped her on the levee. Music blared from outside speakers, and open doorways allowed glimpses of shadowy interiors. Pleasure seekers crowded the sidewalks, laughing and jostling each other, while barkers made extravagant claims to entice customers. She bought fried shrimp in a paper funnel and ate as she strolled along, letting the sounds and smells flow over her, wiping her greasy fingers on the navy silk dress already ruined by sweat and tears.
The nightmares started that night. Claire was driving Felicia Miata, her beloved blue roadster, along an empty highway, a two-lane causeway that sliced through swamp forests at treetop height. The hot sun beat on her head and heat waves shimmered up from the pavement. The trees thinned, and the causeway climbed and became a long bridge arched high over open water. An osprey flew slow circles off to her right. She spotted its nest atop a channel marker.
She hadn't seen another vehicle in miles, but a prickle on the back of her neck made her glance in the rearview. A dark sedan was coming up fast. It closed the distance between them and then tailgated. No one was coming, so she waved it by. The sedan pulled out, but instead of passing rode alongside, looming over her little Miata. She slowed and it slowed. She sped up and it sped up. She glanced over to see who was playing this dangerous game, but dark tinted windows hid whoever was inside.
The causeway climbed higher, and the sedan edged into her lane, forcing her onto the shoulder. Her tires chattered over the rumble strips. She hit the brakes, but her car didn't slow. She pumped the pedal, and nothing happened. Nothing she did made any difference.
The big car moved closer. It pushed her toward the guardrail, and then up against it. Metal screeched, sparks flew and the rail gave way. Felicia flew out over the water and hovered airborne for an agonizingly long time before plummeting downward.
Black water closed over Claire's head. Waterweeds coiled and twisted around her arms and face. She couldn't release the seat belt. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She kept sinking deeper and deeper into the water, an endless descent.
Terrified and gasping for breath, she woke, tangled in bed sheets, not weeds, not a seatbelt. She had suffered a panic attack wrapped in a nightmare. She lay exhausted, taking slow deep breaths to dispel the lingering sensations of the endless descent, the slimy tendrils wrapping themselves around her.
The clock radio read three-thirty. In six hours, she had another appointment with Captain Robinson.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, October 2, 1993
Mike went in early to catch up on the stack of paperwork generated by his determination to raise the division's solve rate. He began by scanning progress reports from half a dozen re-activated investigations, made notations for the lead investigators, and then fixed a pot of coffee, a reward for work accomplished. Breton should be there any minute. They had an eight-thirty with Vernon, and were meeting half an hour ahead to get their ducks in a row before facing the Super, who wanted an arrest yesterday.
Vernon's favorite suspect, Claire Marshall, had no criminal record, no previous brush with law enforcement, no points on her driver's license, and if she'd gotten any parking tickets, she'd paid them. For another crime, that would have moved her way down the suspect list, but murder was different. People who had never before broken the law killed in the heat of the moment. Temporary insanity was a reality as well as a plea.
Mike had seen post-traumatic stress disorder
in the military and thought he might be looking at it again. The symptoms were there. Claire Marshall spent a lot of time staring into the middle distance, looking at things only she could see. Corlette had noticed, too. She lived alone and appeared to have few emotional connections. She'd cut short her visit with her mother on what struck him as a weak pretext. Monday night, he'd seen signs of anger much deeper than the redhead's temper Breton had mentioned. A psychotic incident could account for those lost hours Saturday morning; a flashback, for her reaction to his business card. For a moment, he'd thought she was going to faint.
PTSD occurs in response to a traumatic event. When Breton dug up her husband's obituary, Mike thought they'd found it. Dr. Thomas Marshall had died in a fire. Breton had been apologetic, said he should have remembered. It happened a year ago last summer and had been all over the papers. Brilliant young doctor runs into a burning house and throws two young children to safety, but he doesn't make it back out. The kids were home alone while their addict mother was in an alley turning tricks in exchange for drugs. It was one hell of a way to lose your husband.
Individuals suffering from PTSD could overreact to the point of violence when something reminded them of the initial trauma. Mike pulled out his notes, comparing Claire Marshall's behavior with PTSD symptoms. He'd been ready to believe that the marriage rumors, phony or not, pushed her over the edge. She returned Friday, drove down to the cabin to confront Palmer, lost control and killed him. Faced with his body, she tried to make it look like he, too, died in a fire.
The pieces had been coming together: motive and opportunity. Much as he mistrusted coincidences, maybe the Jeep explosion was just that. But late yesterday afternoon, the arson analysis came in and blew his theory out of the water. The cabin burned on Wednesday, when Claire Marshall was in Michigan. If she was involved, she was part of a cold-blooded conspiracy.
Their only other suspect had been missing for a week. A second search of the ashes hadn't produced any hint of a second victim, and it was anyone's guess if Hatch was alive. And if so, where.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 10