Breton gave him a thumbs-up. "When Vernon hears this, he might forget about your lunch date."
It wasn't a date, but if he said so again, he'd be protesting too much. "One more call."
The airline said that Hatch had used the first half of the roundtrip ticket. Now, they were ready to talk to Vernon.
* * * *
Melissa lifted her soda can and put it back down. She repeated the movement until she'd left a string of wet circles on the glass countertop. It looked like a giant pearl necklace. She went back and added an overlapping circle between each pearl. Now, it looked like a big chain. A crazy chain of events--that was the expression Claire had used.
When the cops called, she'd been tempted to say What key? Who's Claire Marshall? It would have been funny but not worth being caught in a lie. The cops would wonder what else she was lying about--not that she knew enough to lie. Frank told her he was going to pull off the deal of a lifetime, but he never said what it was. It was going to be a surprise. But something really screwed up the chain of events.
She wiped the glass clean and stared at her reflection. Blurry as it was, she could see the vertical lines etched between her brows. Twenty-four years old and she was getting frown lines. Frank hated it when age showed on her face.
She was thirteen when she caught his eye. She gave him her virginity on her fourteenth birthday after he gave her a real diamond bracelet like rich women and tennis stars wore. She'd considered herself a woman of the world, someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it. Looking back from the perspective of twenty-four, she saw a more complicated reality and a higher price. When the other girls giggled about boys getting fresh, she'd remained silent, an initiate isolated by her sophistication. She left no girlfriends behind when she moved from The Home, and she had none now.
Hatch was her only friend, and where the hell was he? He'd called her hotel Wednesday night, babbling about Frank's Jeep. She'd been cross-eyed after a long day at the Merchandise Mart, and she blew him off. She spent the weekend cooped up in her hotel room, waiting for Frank's call that never came.
Frank was dead. Yesterday afternoon she'd stood in the cemetery and watched them slide his coffin into the tomb, but it still didn't seem real. The man who loved her was going to spend eternity lying next to the wife he despised--or whatever was left of her. Annie Lewis had been dead for five years. Whatever was left of Frank. Paul said the coffin had to be closed because his body was so badly burned.
Her phone rang. Paul Gilbert's lamebrain receptionist reminded her she had a four o'clock appointment with God's gift to the law.
"Of course, I remember. It's the high point of my day."
She locked the front door and adjusted her Back-in-a-Minute sign to five-thirty. Upstairs she prepared herself for a meeting with the son of a bitch who'd tried from the beginning to get Frank to dump her. All those years, she'd been terrified that he'd succeed. Now, he never would, but she still hated him. Mr. Born on Third Base, who'd be nothing without his family's money, dared look down on people like her who had to make their own way. His snotty attitude infuriated her, but she knew how to make him squirm.
When she got to Paul's office, the lamebrain told her to go right in. Mr. Gilbert was waiting. She sat in front of Paul's desk and leaned forward to let him see she wasn't wearing a bra. He looked away, pretending not to notice, so she straightened up and uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Her stockings made a rustling sound as her legs slid against each other. She could hear it and so could he, but the game wasn't as much fun without Frank there to watch.
She gazed at him through lowered lashes. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"When we spoke the other day I was aware that Frank had made provisions for your future welfare."
"Frank always took good care of me." She switched legs again, and her skirt slid higher.
Paul kept his eyes on the papers he was fooling with. "Frank's insurance agent called to ask if I knew how to contact you. I mentioned this meeting and suggested he join us. I trust that's acceptable." He looked up and smiled at her.
"What does he want?" Anything that made Paul smile made her nervous.
"Why don't we let him explain." He pushed a button on the intercom. "Suzanne, please send Mr. Reynolds in as soon as he arrives."
It turned out he was already there. The door opened and a gray-haired man wearing a gray suit walked in. Even his skin looked gray.
"Melissa dear, this is Don Reynolds, who was Frank's insurance agent. Don, this is Melissa Yates, who needs no further introduction. Why don't you two sit over on the sofa? You'll be more comfortable."
"I'll stay right here." She wanted to slap the smile off Paul's face.
The gray man stared as if he'd never seen a woman before and said to call him Don. He dragged a chair up next to hers, pulled a folder out of his brief case and spoke to her chest.
"Shortly before his death, Frank modified a life insurance policy that I helped him set it up several years ago--what we call a key man policy. Its purpose was to protect FP Development in the case of Frank's death. The policy includes a double indemnity clause."
She turned away. Let the creep stare at her back.
"Don't bother with the details, Don," Paul interrupted. "Melissa only cares about what directly affects her. And Melissa, this does affect you."
The agent cleared his throat like he was going to make an important announcement. "You're going to be a rich woman, Melissa. Frank altered the terms of this policy to make you the beneficiary. As a result, you'll receive ten million dollars."
Paul's mouth was moving, but the roaring in her head drowned out his words. Ten million dollars. Frank never mentioned any life insurance. She ought to say something, but her mind wouldn't string words together. From the corner of her eye, she saw Don Reynolds reach over. She glared and he stopped, his hand fluttering above her legs. If he touched her, she'd knock his gray ass into next month.
She tugged her skirt down and tried to think. Had Frank decided to dump her, and this was the pay-off? Ten million dollars for ten years of her life? No. She only got the money if Frank was dead. He must have known his life was in danger--something to do with that big deal. This insurance policy was his way of looking after her in case things went wrong. Like they did. She cut to the chase.
"When do I get the money?"
Paul nodded toward the insurance agent, who cleared his throat again. "Our usual procedure is to make the payment as soon as we receive the death certificate, but given the, um, circumstances we're also requiring an affidavit from the medical examiner. It's just a formality." He started putting papers back in his briefcase.
"What circumstances?" she said.
"The circumstances surrounding Frank's death," Paul said. "You have talked to the police haven't you, dear? No offense, but I think they'll be interested in your windfall." He smiled again.
It took a moment before she understood. "This life insurance is going to make the cops think I killed Frank. That's what you're implying, isn't it?"
The son of a bitch had set her up, and he thought it was funny. That's why he couldn't stop smiling. When Paul was involved the lid stayed on, but even he couldn't make murder go away. Someone had to take the fall, and she'd been elected.
"I hope you don't find it presumptuous, but I've already considered your legal situation." Paul leaned back in his chair, Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected, now that she was in the hot seat.
"Are you offering to be my lawyer?" Before she finished the question, Paul was shaking his head, still smiling, the snotty bastard.
"As the attorney for Frank's estate, I have a potential conflict of interest. And I believe your interests would be better served by an attorney who specializes in criminal defense." He handed her a business card. "Ben Patterson is apprised of the general situation. Whether or not you talk to him is, of course, your decision."
She grabbed the card and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Hard.
Paul had struggled t
o keep a straight face as the comedy unfolded. As usual, Melissa had dressed like a slut. He pictured her going through her closet, asking herself what Barbie would wear if Ken died. Don had played his role to perfection. Paul had known he would. When they were in prep school, Don had drilled a peephole into the girl's locker room. Whenever some pervert was arrested for looking up women's skirts in Wal-Mart, he thought of Don Reynolds. Watching the man gawk at Melissa's unfettered bosom had been truly amusing. Her obvious annoyance was lagniappe.
He opened the antique commode that concealed his liquor cabinet. "I can offer you wine, or if you prefer, something stronger."
"Bourbon if you have it. No water." Don looked shaken. "Frank was murdered?"
"According to the police. It will be on the news this evening. I took the liberty of telling them about the insurance policy. You'll probably be hearing from a Captain Mike Robinson. He was most interested in the change in beneficiaries."
"Do you think Melissa had something to do with Frank's death?" Don gulped a ten-year-old bourbon that deserved to be sipped.
"I don't know, but if she did, wouldn't it negate her right to the proceeds?" That Reynolds should consider this before authorizing payment went unsaid, but surely not unheard.
"Should our legal department contact you?"
"Absolutely not. I'm Frank's executor, not Melissa's lawyer."
He would paint his naked body blue and beg for quarters on Bourbon Street before he took Melissa Yates as a client. Frank had directed him to look out for her interests when he was no longer in a position to do so. He'd meant after his marriage to Claire, but under the circumstances, Paul felt obliged to interpret the charge broadly. Ben Patterson was a top-notch criminal attorney--not quite as good as Felix Moreau, but Claire had asked first.
He took pity on Don Reynolds, who still wore a deer in the headlights look. "Stop by Suzanne's desk on your way out. She'll give you Melissa's contact information."
CHAPTER 19
Friday, October 22, 1993
Felix Moreau, Claire's new lawyer, picked her up at her office and used the drive time to review his goals for their upcoming meeting with Captain Robinson and Superintendent Vernon. Felix had insisted on talking to both of them. If the head of homicide was conducting interviews, the case was top priority, and any meeting without Vernon would be a waste of time.
Felix's time was too expensive to waste. Yesterday afternoon's introductory session had cost four hundred dollars. Today would be another four hundred. The thousand-dollar retainer she'd paid was melting away. She couldn't afford to be a murder suspect for much longer.
"Remember," he said as they entered police headquarters, "do not, I repeat, do not answer any question until I've said they can ask it. That's why you're paying me."
"That won't make me look guilty?"
"Anything else will make you look foolish." He patted her shoulder. "Relax, you'll be fine."
When they walked into the conference room, Superintendent Vernon and Felix greeted each other with handshakes and smiles. They were on a first name basis, and that's how the meeting was conducted, Henry and Mike talking to Felix and Claire. Apparently Lieutenant Breton hadn't been invited.
Felix did most of the talking. Speaking only after he nodded his assent, Claire felt like a child sitting at the grown-up table, but she was paying too much for his advice to disregard it. If Captain Robinson--she still had difficulty thinking of him as Mike--regretted telling her to hire a lawyer or was annoyed about her lawyer going over his head, he hid it well.
Under pressure from Felix, Henry Vernon acknowledged that, of course, Claire was free to travel as she pleased. If the police wanted to interview her again, Mike or someone working for him would contact Felix to arrange an interview.
The meeting ended with a second round of friendly handshakes. Claire left police headquarters convinced that Felix was worth every penny. "I'm so glad to have that behind me."
"I'm not sure it's behind you. All we did was confirm that they don't have enough evidence to bring charges."
"Charges for what?" she said. "They admitted that I didn't break any law by not reporting the cabin sooner. The fire was out. They practically admitted that everything happened while I was a thousand miles away from Frank or his cabin."
Felix didn't answer until they were in his car and underway. "I think the police either know or strongly suspect Hatch was involved in Frank's death. If you were conspiring with him, being in Michigan when the cabin burned doesn't mean much."
His words hit her like a slap in the face. He was right. That's why the police kept asking about Hatch. Going to his apartment had been unbelievably stupid.
"Don't look at me like that, Claire. I believe that you had nothing to do with either the fire or Frank's death."
"Were you and Frank friends?" When talking to the police, Felix had referred to Frank as Mr. Palmer but, when it was just the two of them, he said Frank.
"Not close, although certainly friends. In many ways, New Orleans is a small town."
She should have known. Paul, who was Frank's friend as well as his lawyer, had recommended Felix. Paul had called and made an appointment for her when Felix's secretary said his calendar was full. These men all knew each other. She was the outsider, needing their help and dependent upon their goodwill. Had Frank told Felix they planned to marry?
"I'm afraid you'll be a suspect until the real criminal's found," he said. "If we need to, we'll hire our own investigator. It's an expensive option, and I don't think necessary at this point. For now, you should just sit tight."
Sit tight. That was easy for Felix to say. When he went to the bank, no sympathetic teller whispered that the police had been asking about his finances. His picture wasn't on the front page of the newspaper. No reporters lurked at the end of his driveway. He didn't wake up sweat-drenched and terrified at 2:00 a.m.
The nightmare had recurred last night. This morning, driving in broad daylight on city streets, she'd kept checking her rearview mirror, afraid she'd see the dark sedan. There was no point telling Felix any of this. "Why on earth does anyone think I'd want to harm Frank?"
"Why doesn't really matter." He shrugged. "Human beings do all sorts of terrible things for the flimsiest of reasons. The police know that."
And so, apparently, did Felix. She was still learning.
He dropped her back at her office with a final warning. "Don't discuss anything with the police unless I'm present. I don't care how innocuous it might seem. And for God's sake, no more visits to Hatch's apartment."
"I left my sweater there."
"Buy yourself a new sweater. The police are looking for a connection between the two of you. Don't create one." That warning delivered, he drove away.
Claire changed into work clothes and drove over to the once and future Laurens family home. She found Jack supervising the removal of lowered ceilings on the second floor, reported that the meeting had gone well, and set herself up in the foyer. She'd measured every inch of the bedraggled house and identified the original walls. Her next task was to discover what, if anything, remained of architectural features that had been covered up. This search for buried treasure was her favorite part of a restoration, but today she was distracted.
She slid the stud finder along the wall, looking for the fireplace and mantel that, she hoped, lay behind the wallboard, and tried not to think about the police or Frank or Hatch. Through the open front door, she saw a police car cruise slowly past. It probably had nothing to do with her. Or maybe it did, because Felix was right. She moved the stud finder another four inches to the left, marked where it indicated the beginning of something solid.
She was using a utility knife to cut a peek hole in the wallboard when her hand slipped, and the blade sliced her palm. For a moment nothing happened, and then blood streamed down her arm. She wrapped a rag around her hand to staunch the flow. The first aid kit was in her truck. Her purse was there, too, and her pills.
A tight bandage stop
ped the bleeding. She lowered the windows and lay across the front seat, waiting for the pill to kick in and for the queasy feeling to abate. Her new life, a haphazard reconstruction at best, was falling apart. The panic attacks were back unless she took extra meds, and then there were side effects. She'd cut herself because her concentration and coordination were off.
What good were sleeping pills when sleep opened the door to nightmares? Her attempts to find a witness to the fire had been a fool's game that only aroused suspicion.
Getting a lawyer had been smart. Thank you, Captain Robinson. Felix would help with the police and their interrogations, but he couldn't do anything about the reporters who waited at the end of her driveway with their cameras and microphones. He'd told her to be patient. Another scandal would push Frank's death off the front page.
When? Every day, some new event kept it there. Wednesday, it was the funeral. Yesterday, the police announced that Frank had been murdered. Jeanette had been on television every night, going on about the tragic romance and the honeymoon that never happened.
She found Jack and told him she was leaving early. The cut on her hand was nothing serious, but the bandage made her clumsy. "I'll see you tomorrow morning.".
* * * *
Jeanette opened the door before Claire rang the bell. "I'm so glad you called. I wasn't doing anything. Please come in. Let me give you a hug. You poor thing, how're you doing? Come in. Come in. Oh, Claire, it's so wonderful to see you. Don't mind me. I've been crying ever since I saw on the news last night that Frank was murdered. It was bad enough that he died, but murdered? I just can't believe it. Are you thirsty? Can I fix you a coke?"
The act of pouring sodas helped Jeanette regain her composure. When they sat down, she started talking about the honeymoon arrangements.
"I found a wonderful resort in Saint Barts. Frank said it was just what he was looking for. You had an ocean view from your private balcony, your own honeymoon Jacuzzi, everything. It was fantastic, right on the beach." The topic unleashed a new flood of tears. She blew her nose and added the dirty tissue to the growing pile on the floor. "They even had a stable so you could go riding. Frank said you liked horses."
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 13