Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "Are you ready to explain why we've made no progress?" Breton was talking when he walked in the door. "More to the point, why we're treating Claire Marshall with kid gloves. You don't believe her getting lost story do you?"

  "No, and we're not. She's due here at nine-thirty. Were you able to reach Palmer's physician?"

  "He'd given Palmer a prescription for the sleeping pills, not the downers, but so what. You can buy that shit on the street."

  "Claire Marshall's doctor prescribed both sedatives." It had taken the threat of a subpoena to get that information, but Breton was right about their wide availability. "How'd she behave at the funeral?"

  "She saw me but pretended not to. Hurt my feelings when she didn't even say hello." He smirked and took the offered cup of coffee. "The only time she showed any emotion was on the way out. TV news ambushed her, and she didn't like it."

  "Anything else?"

  "Another woman, a real knockout, came in late and sat in the first pew next to Gilbert. I called him when I got back to the office. Turns out she's Palmer's long-term squeeze, name of Melissa Yates. He thinks we should talk to her, but he doesn't want her to know where we got her name. He says their relationship is already difficult." He wiggled his fingers, putting that last word in quotation marks.

  "Did he say how to reach her?"

  "She owns a boutique down in the Quarter. He practically drew me a map. Gilbert is throwing her into our laps."

  "Gilbert's slick, but he's also right. I want you to talk to her today. Tell her that Palmer was murdered and see how she reacts."

  "Okay, but I think there's something between Gilbert and Claire Marshall," Breton said. "He helped her out Monday. Now he's pointing us at this other woman."

  "I think you're fixated on her."

  "Her husband dies in a fire. Little over a year later, a man who's planning to marry her is murdered and someone tries to make it look like he died in a fire."

  "Someone could be trying to set her up."

  "Vernon wants us to put more pressure on her. You don't want him thinking you're dragging your feet or, God help you, protecting her."

  Mike appreciated the warning. He was glad to see Breton finally showing some initiative, but he was withholding judgment on his scenario. He crumpled up his PTSD notes, threw them at the wastepaper basket and missed. "Let's go." He retrieved the errant paper ball. "He's expecting us."

  * * * *

  Claire arrived at the police station promptly at nine-thirty, but Captain Robinson wasn't in his office. The desk officer directed her to a waiting area. She was coming to a slow boil by the time he walked in at quarter to ten.

  "Sorry I'm late. A meeting ran longer than expected." He gestured toward the hallway. "Please. After you."

  When they reached his office, he waited until she was seated before offering her coffee or water. His good manners did nothing to take the edge off her temper. She was tired, she didn't like being kept waiting, and she wasn't happy to be back in the principal's office.

  "Thank you for coming in." He paused and then said, "Once again, I have to ask if you want a lawyer present."

  "If I did, I would have come with one."

  "You might want to reconsider." He pushed the hair back off his forehead. "I was trained as a lawyer, and I've worked as a defense attorney. Access to legal representation is guaranteed in our criminal justice system, and with good reason. Circumstantial evidence can convict innocent people. Careless remarks can be misunderstood or misinterpreted."

  He sounded as if he'd recited this speech many times before, and he probably knew what he was talking about, but Claire didn't care. She wasn't interested in another civics lesson from another policeman. She was there because she really had no choice. Paul had told her that if she refused to talk to them, they could subpoena her, and if she still refused, she could be jailed for contempt. He'd said she could refuse to answer specific questions on the grounds that she didn't want to incriminate herself. Captain Robinson had already told her that.

  "I know what lawyers do," she said, "and I know that you're under pressure to make an arrest. Frank's death is all over the news." Her nerves were rubbed raw. Neither the lecture she'd given herself on the drive here nor the extra half pill she'd taken to get herself through this interrogation could hold back her anger. "I'd be a very convenient guilty party, wouldn't I?"

  "Ms. Marshall..."

  "I'm not from here. I have no influential friends. No one will be embarrassed if I'm accused of burning down Frank's cabin or even of murdering him." As the words tumbled out, she realized their truth. She was a convenient scapegoat. If there were another interview--and there would be--she'd have a lawyer. "Turn on your tape recorder and let's begin. I have a business to take care of."

  "Let's start with your visit to in Lafourche Parish Tuesday. What were you doing there?"

  Claire bit back the impulse to ask if he and Deputy Corlette ever talked to each other. Of course they did. That was how he knew she'd been there. And he also knew why, but she told him anyway. After exhausting the topic of her encounter with Daniel, he repeated his previous questions about Saturday morning, and she gave him the same answers.

  "We're looking for Ronald Hatch. Can you help us?"

  "I barely know him and have no idea where he might be." She hoped that would end the interview, but Captain Robinson appeared to be in no hurry.

  "A few minutes ago, you said no one would be embarrassed if you were accused of murdering Frank Palmer." He put his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward slightly. "I know the news is describing his death as suspicious, but no one has said he was murdered."

  "Not in so many words." She sat back, folded her arms across her chest and concentrated on breathing slowly.

  "You're correct. Frank Palmer was murdered. That information will become public at a press conference later today."

  She'd known it had to be, but hearing this policeman confirm her suspicions still shocked her.

  "Homicide is a police matter," he continued. "If you recall anything that might help us unravel what happened down at Palmer's cabin, call me. Don't go charging off on your own like you did on Tuesday. What if you'd found the killer and not just some punk who poaches oysters?"

  "Are we through?" She couldn't get out of there fast enough.

  "Did you hear what I said about not interfering in our investigation?"

  She nodded.

  After another warning about the dangers of pursuing a murderer, he stood and started walking around his desk.

  "Don't bother, please," she said. "I can find my way out."

  CHAPTER 16

  The watch had come from a boutique on Royale in the French Quarter, a long walk from police headquarters, but Claire was too rattled to drive. She fetched her sweater from behind the seat, fed the parking meter, and set out. Her feet hit the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounded like someone chanting. Murdered, murdered, murdered.

  Frank had been murdered.

  Captain Robinson had said he didn't want to become convinced of her innocence when she became the next victim. Why would anyone want to kill her? Why did someone kill Frank? Absorbed in her thoughts, she walked past the shop and had to retrace her steps.

  The sign read Melissa's Got Time. The display window held an array of jeweled timepieces resting on a painted backdrop that evoked Dali's surreal masterpiece of melting watches. A bell chimed when Claire walked in.

  A saleswoman was holding a tank top embellished with a sequined sundial against her chest and flirting with two middle-aged men, the only customers. She looked up and said, "I'll be with you in just a minute." She spoke with a soft drawl, not the distinctive New Orleans accent that included a bit of Brooklyn.

  Claire recognized the young woman who'd sat in the front pew at Frank's funeral. Her arrival had caused a sensation, and Bobby Austin had hurried away when asked about her. Heat rose in Claire's cheeks as she guessed why.

  "No rush," she managed to say. She walked past shelves h
olding cross-stitch pillows decorated with sayings about time and stopped beside a glass jewelry cabinet. The bracelets, pins, and necklaces inside ranged from trendy to antique and from expensive to very expensive. She'd been right about the watch's value, but everything else about the situation baffled her.

  The men left, and the young woman walked over. "Can I help you?"

  "Please. My name is Claire Marshall."

  "Hello, Claire." Her eyes widened in surprise then flicked up and down in a quick appraisal. "I'm Melissa Yates."

  "Melissa. This is your shop?"

  "That's right."

  "I like your window display."

  "Thank you."

  "I saw you at Frank Palmer's funeral. I guess we both were friends with Frank."

  "Friends?" Melissa's eyes narrowed. "The paper said you were getting married."

  "That's not true." Claire answered more vehemently than she intended and quickly backpedaled. "I mean the story in the paper was inaccurate."

  "I knew he wasn't going to marry you." Her tone mixed satisfaction with relief.

  "I asked them to print a retraction."

  "Frank and I have been together for ten years."

  They stood, facing off like two gunfighters on the dusty streets of Laredo. If Frank weren't dead, Claire thought, this would be funny. But if he weren't dead, this wouldn't be happening.

  "Please accept my condolences."

  Melissa nodded, stone-faced.

  Claire broke a silence that had lasted long enough to become uncomfortable "Before he died, Frank gave me a watch." She pulled the box from her pocketbook. "I was going to give it back, but now I can't, and so I'd like to return it to you. I'll donate the money to The Children's Home. In his name."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  "I thought about giving it to Annalisa, but I don't know where she is or how to contact her. She didn't even come to his funeral." Claire waited to see if Melissa would say anything about Annalisa, but the woman maintained a stony silence and so she plowed on. "I don't have a receipt, but your store's name is on the box."

  Melissa opened the box, removed the watch and held it up to the light. "Frank paid four thousand. Retail is more like ten."

  After a brief negotiation, they agreed Melissa would try to sell the watch for a price of her choosing. When it sold or in three months, whichever came first, she'd give Claire four thousand dollars.

  "If you want to give the money to The Children's Home, that's your business." Her voice was as hard and flat as her eyes.

  Claire searched for words to end this awkward encounter on a pleasant note. "Thank you for your help and for believing me about Frank."

  "Who told them you were getting married in the first place?"

  "I think Frank did, but I can't imagine why."

  "Well," Melissa drew the word out to several syllables. "Neither can I." Another quick appraisal. "If he bought you those earrings, I can't help with them. They didn't come from here."

  Claire put her hands to her ears. "My husband gave me these!"

  "You're married?"

  "I'm a widow. My husband was a wonderful man, a hero."

  "Hey. No offense intended." Melissa held up her hands as if warding off an attack.

  Claire realized she'd been yelling like a madwoman. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I've been under a lot of stress. I'm really sorry."

  "No problem, it's been a tough time for lots of us." Melissa walked over to the cash register.

  Claire followed, being careful not to crowd the counter. "You knew Frank well. I didn't." She raised her palms in a gesture of helpless frustration. "This phony fiancée business... It's as if he was playing some kind of a game, but then he died. And now I'm trapped by some crazy chain of events that he set in motion. I just came from the police station."

  "What were you doing there?" Melissa said.

  * * * *

  Breton called in twenty minutes after he'd left the office. "Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Claire Marshall led me right to Melissa's boutique. Our victim's fiancée and his mistress are having a little tête-à-tête."

  "Where are you now?"

  "On the sidewalk outside the shop."

  Mike cursed under his breath. He'd wondered why Claire was in such a hurry to leave his office. Now he knew. He'd also wanted to see how Melissa reacted when told that Palmer was murdered, and it looked as if Claire had beaten them to the punch. Maybe she was part of a conspiracy. He'd been fooled before.

  "Melissa just slid something across the counter. Could be a key. Claire put it in her purse. Here she comes."

  "Don't let her see you."

  "She's not looking anywhere but straight ahead. Our suspect is in a big hurry. Do you want me to stay with her?"

  Mike weighed the options and went with discretion. "No. If she spots you, she'll know you saw them together. I'll meet you in front of the boutique in twenty minutes. What's the address?"

  When they walked in, Melissa was alone in the shop. She looked up from the scarves she was folding and smiled.

  "May I help you, gentlemen?"

  Mike showed his badge. "We're looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of Frank Palmer and hope you can help us."

  "I'll do anything to help the police." She sashayed to the door and flipped the sign to closed.

  Breton spoke out of the side of his mouth, "Showtime. Gilbert said she enjoyed flaunting her charms. I'm hoping for a lap dance."

  Melissa returned and leaned against the counter, one hip outthrust and cleavage on display. "Now we won't be interrupted."

  When told Palmer had been murdered, she neither expressed surprise nor admitted knowing anything that might shed light on a motive. She responded to questions about their relationship with a raised chin.

  "As I'm sure you know, we were very close."

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

  "He drove me to the airport Monday morning." She looked past them. "I was in Atlanta all week."

  "When did you return to New Orleans?"

  "Sunday afternoon."

  "That's a long time in Atlanta." Breton said. "What were you doing there?"

  "I went to the show at the Gift Mart, buying for the shop. I was supposed to come back Friday night, but I got sick and stayed 'til Sunday. I didn't know anything had happened to Frank until I read it in the paper Monday morning."

  "Can you document your travel?"

  "I was staying at the Peachtree Plaza, and I flew Delta. I can prove it if I have to." She resumed folding the scarves.

  "We're looking for Ronald Hatch."

  "I'm looking for him myself. I have half a container sitting down at the port. Hatch and Jimbo usually pick up my shipments."

  Mike waited to see if she'd say more without being asked. After folding another scarf, she said, "Jimbo's a big strong guy who has a truck. I don't know his last name or anything about him except he and Hatch are friends." She glanced at one of the myriad clocks on the wall. "I need to open back up. It's almost noon. People shop over their lunch break."

  On the ride back to headquarters, Mike and Breton discussed Melissa's behavior, which had been remarkably cool for a woman who claimed to be mourning her lover. She'd shown more concern over Hatch's disappearance.

  "That's one tough cookie," Breton said. "And nothing we told her was a surprise."

  "She had her alibi ready."

  "I'll tell you. Seeing her with Claire Marshall made me think."

  "They could almost be sisters," Mike finished the sentence. The thought had occurred to him the minute he walked into the shop. Palmer must have had a thing for tall slender redheads.

  "Yeah. And wouldn't that be a kick in the head? But the resemblance is only physical, if you know what I mean. I'm thinking Marshall really isn't Palmer's type." Breton tapped his temple. "I can tell you what kind of a car a man drives by looking at his wife, and this guy drove a Jag. We're talking fast, sexy and high maintenance
."

  "Can you tell what kind of car a woman drives by looking at her husband?" He wondered if Breton remembered that Claire Marshall drove a bright blue Miata, and if so, what the hell he thought that meant.

  "Go ahead, make fun. But I'm right. A guy like Palmer wants a woman other men would give their left nut to have, not the girl next door. Have you seen a picture of his late wife?" He blew on his fingers as if he had touched a hot stove.

  "A man can look for very different things in a wife and in a mistress."

  "From your mouth to God's ear," Breton said. "But I don't think Palmer cared about home cooking."

  In an attempt to pull the conversation back on track, Mike said, "I'd like to know how long those two have known each other and how well. You saw them together. What's your impression?"

  "Hard to say. It started out confrontational. They passed a jewelry box back and forth, and Marshall acted excited. Then everything calmed down, and they huddled like they were comparing notes." Breton snickered. "I think someone should take a good look at Melissa, and I volunteer."

  "You can start by checking with the airline and the hotel, but I'll be very surprised if her story doesn't hold up. The whole thing feels choreographed."

  "How's that?"

  "Both women in Palmer's life leave town the day before he disappears. He drives them to the airport, separate trips. Then they do a little shuffle. The mistress scheduled to return on Friday waits until Sunday. The fiancée scheduled to return Sunday comes back on Friday. They shouldn't know each other, but they do."

  "They could be in it together--Team Redhead. They find out about each other and decide to get rid of him. M-O-T-I-V-E." He sang the letters.

  "Either or both of them could be working with Hatch."

  When they returned to headquarters, the state crime lab report was waiting on Mike's desk. A cover memo said the analysis had been expedited at the request of the New Orleans Police Department. Some days, politics pays off.

  Lafourche Parish was right. The Jeep had been booby-trapped. A small explosive device had detonated under the driver's seat. It set off the gasoline fumes in the car and that ignited the gas tank. In the analyst's opinion, if this had occurred while the car was on the highway, the bomb would have disabled the driver. The ensuing accident would have finished him off, if he wasn't dead already.