Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "Hey there, big boy. How about letting me out of my car?"

  The dog stopped barking and came closer. His tail wasn't wagging, but his hackles weren't up. He was reserving judgment.

  "I bet you're a nice dog." She spoke softly, and being careful not make any move that might be interpreted as aggression, eased a flat hand out the window.

  He sniffed her fingers.

  "Are you hungry?"

  She retracted her hand and slid it back out with the remnants of her fast food breakfast on her palm. A sniff, a tentative lick, and half a sausage biscuit disappeared. The dog licked his chops and looked up at her. Tan markings shaped like raised eyebrows gave him a quizzical expression. A graying muzzle said he wasn't young.

  "If you chewed your food, it would last longer."

  His tail made a long slow loop in the air.

  She opened the door and when the dog didn't object, stepped out. He followed her up the walkway, sniffing her legs, and she assured him that the cat he smelled was back in New Orleans, nothing for him to worry about. They climbed the porch steps together, and he watched her ring the bell.

  Chimes echoed inside the house, but no footsteps approached. Claire's shoulders sagged. She'd prepared herself for a hostile encounter but not for an empty house. She was debating whether to wait or go when the door creaked open. A gray-haired woman in a wheelchair glared at her.

  "Are you the one who called this morning?"

  "Yes, Ma'am, I'm--"

  "As I told you and those other reporters, I have nothing to say. Please leave."

  "I'm not a reporter. I'm hiding from reporters." Claire hoped the common enemy would gain sympathy.

  Mrs. Fulton wasn't buying it. "Well then, you'd better find somewhere else to hide."

  "Please. I'm only asking for a few minutes of your time."

  "One second talking about Frank Palmer is asking too much." The old woman's voice trembled with emotion. "You get out of here before I call the sheriff."

  There was no time for the careful words she had rehearsed on the drive over, and so Claire jumped to the end. "The police think I killed Frank."

  Mrs. Fulton who'd been rolling backwards froze with her hand on the door. "His slimy lawyer said he died in a fire."

  "Someone killed him and set his cabin on fire."

  The old woman stared past her. Claire looked over her shoulder but saw only fields and fences, trees on a distant horizon. When she turned back, Mrs. Fulton was studying her with an unreadable expression.

  "What do you want from me?"

  "To learn more about Frank. If I can figure out why someone would want to kill him, I might be able to find someone else for the police to suspect." This lame explanation was the truth, and all she had. "I have to do something or I'll go crazy." More truth, although Mrs. Fulton wouldn't realize it was a literal rather than a figurative truth. The nightmare had invaded her days. She'd just driven two hours on an Interstate afraid to look in her rear view mirror.

  "I've neither seen nor spoken to him since my daughter's funeral." The old woman patted the dog. "I'm surprised Caesar let you out of your car."

  "He can tell I like dogs."

  "Strays would follow you home."

  "Yes." Surprise made Claire smile despite her disappointment. "At least that's what I told my mother." She extended her hand, and the dog nuzzled it.

  "That's what Annie Lewis used to tell me--Annalisa, too. Both of them were always bringing home strays. This oversized mongrel was Annalisa's dog. Weren't you, Caesar?"

  The dog thumped his tail against the doorframe.

  "You say Frank was murdered. I should feel satisfaction, but his death doesn't undo the damage he did to my family."

  The woman's distress shamed Claire. She knew Mrs. Fulton didn't want to talk to her, and she'd driven here anyway. She'd stirred up old sorrows, almost certainly memories of a daughter's suicide, and all for nothing. Mrs. Fulton hated Frank, but she was an old lady in a wheelchair who hadn't seen him in years.

  "I'm sorry I bothered you. Please forgive me."

  "None of what happened is your fault."

  "I shouldn't have come. I'm leaving."

  "I'll give you a glass of tea before you go. You look tired, and it's a long drive."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Fulton. I'd like that." At least they'd part on a friendly note.

  "If you're coming in, you might as well call me Annette. Everyone else does." She pointed toward the yard. "Caesar, you stay outside and try to act like a watchdog."

  She followed Annette into a front room with very familiar furnishings. "My mother has the same sofa and chairs," she said. "Different upholstery, but the exact same furniture." For some reason this brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard.

  "Where does your mother live?"

  "In Michigan. The furniture's been in the family for ages."

  "My great grandmother had ours shipped down from Grand Rapids."

  Annette led her to the kitchen and took a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. "We can sit in the sunroom. You'll have to carry your own glass. I'm quite used to making do, but this contraption takes one hand, and I can carry only one glass at a time."

  The sunroom was an old porch that had been enclosed. Claire looked out the window at the rolling green fields. "What a lovely view."

  "Does your mother know that the police think you killed someone?"

  "No." She sipped iced tea so sweet it made her teeth itch. "The police called and asked questions, but she has no idea how bad things are."

  "I didn't know either, not until it was too late." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to upset you. I should have thought... I'm so sorry."

  "When we were at the door, I felt my daughter's presence. Annie Lewis was there on the porch with you." Annette closed her eyes. "Every day I ask the Lord to help me understand His purpose for the sorrow that has marked my life." She spoke so softly that Claire strained to hear. "I believe He sent you to me. But I didn't help my own daughter, and I don't know how to help you."

  "Please, don't let me make you sad. I'm sure you did everything you could. Let me pour you a fresh glass of tea. When you're settled, I'll leave."

  "Fix us both another glass and tell me why the police suspect you. I pray I'll be shown a way to help."

  Claire hesitated--she'd done enough damage--but Annette insisted, and so she told about wanting to confront Frank and finding the burned cabin. She didn't mention Tom. There was enough talk of loss without that. Nor did she mention her panic attack and taking too many pills. She simply said that she'd believed Frank was elsewhere and called from the beach to report the fire.

  "You're very fortunate you didn't go there when he wanted you to."

  "If I had, he might still be alive." It was an uncomfortable thought, but she had to face it.

  "No. You'd be dead. Frank was up to no good, and whoever killed him wouldn't have spared you. If you don't see that, you're a very naÏve young woman."

  This possibility, something Claire had never considered, sent a shiver down her spine.

  "Annie Lewis was naÏve, too." Sorrow distorted Annette's face, and Claire thought she might start to cry, but she recovered and said, "It's almost one. Have you eaten lunch?"

  Over pimento cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table, they talked about the farm, the weather, and the dog. When they finished, she cleared the table and Annette loaded the dishwasher. The routine reminded her of all the times she and her mother had shared this task.

  As if reading her mind, Annette said, "Annie Lewis always helped me with the dishes. It was a good time to talk." She put the last plate in and said. "I want you to promise me that what's said in this room will go no further."

  "I promise."

  "All I know of Frank's life is his time with Annie Lewis. If God gives me the strength, I'll tell you about it." She rolled over to the hall bookcase and pulled out several photo albums, which she brought back to the kitchen
table. "I have to start at the beginning."

  Over the next hour, Annette walked through the old pictures. They followed Annie Lewis through childhood, grammar school, high school, and on to the University of Alabama. College brought the first mention of Frank Palmer.

  "It was her senior year. Frank came to the LSU game with a friend who'd played ball for Alabama. Annie Lewis was a cheerleader. She caught his eye, and he found someone to introduce them. Frank was a good-looking devil, smart as a whip, and charming. He swept her off her feet. They married right after she graduated."

  She picked up a slender album covered in white leather. Curly silver script on the cover read Annie Lewis Fulton and Franklin Hugh Palmer, June 21, 1972. Claire leaned forward, curious to see Frank as a young man, but someone had cut his face out of every picture.

  "I did that the day after I buried my daughter." Annette explained without being asked. She moved on to the next album. "Frank worked for a construction company in New Orleans. Annalisa was born there." She showed Claire pictures of the newborn at home with her parents. Frank had been excised from these pictures also.

  "After Annalisa was born I went to stay for a couple weeks, just long enough to help Annie Lewis get settled with her new baby--the maternal grandmother's privilege and duty." Her smile was sad. "That's when I realized there was trouble in their marriage. Annie Lewis was always calling herself fat and ugly, messing with her hair and make-up." Annette's voice rose in outrage as she catalogued her daughter's growing insecurity, and then dropped to a whisper. "One day, she broke down and told me. As soon as she started getting big with Annalisa, Frank wanted nothing to do with her. He was either working or out tomcatting."

  Claire nodded her understanding. She'd met Melissa. There would have been others.

  "He didn't want a divorce, and so they came to an accommodation. Annie Lewis agreed to stay in the marriage so that Annalisa would have the advantages of being Frank Palmer's daughter. He was a failure as a human being, but he was a good provider." Annette, who had been speaking rapidly as if reciting something learned by heart, closed her eyes and spoke slowly. "It went on like that for years. I thought Annie Lewis had made a tolerable life for herself and her child, but the winter Annalisa turned thirteen..." She put her head in her hands and wept sobs so harsh that Claire felt them in her own throat.

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Claire put her hand on Annette's arm. "Please, you don't have to go on."

  "They'd come see us on holidays." Annette had stopped sobbing, but tears still streamed down her cheeks. "We didn't go there. Will had started to fail and he couldn't travel. I didn't know. I didn't want to know."

  She opened a folder that had been tucked into the last album, pulled out several manila envelopes and extracted a photograph from the newest looking one. "This is my granddaughter."

  A longhaired young woman stood behind a shop counter, apparently unaware her picture was being taken. Her face showed resemblance to both Annie Lewis and Frank. Annette kept the photo, returned the envelopes to the folder and handed it to Claire.

  "Davidson's reports will tell you how to find Annalisa. The letter from Annie Lewis says what I can't say. Read it and then destroy it." She stared into Claire's eyes as if probing her soul. "The other letter is for Annalisa. I want you to give it to her and make sure she reads it."

  "I'll try." She wanted to help, but she couldn't promise to succeed where detectives had failed.

  Annette grabbed her wrist. "You will talk to Annalisa. That's the reason the Good Lord led you to me." She loosened her grasp. "I'm an old woman with little time left. I want to make peace with my granddaughter before I die."

  CHAPTER 22

  Mike finished the briefing and said, "I warned you we didn't have much."

  "Hatch didn't know Palmer was dead?" Corlette said.

  "I'm sure of it."

  "So, what are we accusing him of?"

  "Arson."

  "You think a judge will issue a warrant?"

  "Maybe." They were supposed to get an arrest warrant within forty-eight hours. If they didn't get one within 72, Hatch could demand a hearing.

  They were searching for a scenario that encompassed Hatch torching the cabin but not knowing Palmer's body was inside when Breton walked in looking disgruntled. "The Vermin has called a press conference for noon. We're talking to the judge at two. We better get a confession this morning." He acknowledged Corlette by explaining, "The Vermin, officially known as Assistant Superintendent Henry Vernon, is Mike's boss."

  "If that's your idea of a joke." Mike didn't want to believe it.

  "Check your messages. He wants both of us there."

  "A press conference?" Corlette blew up. "So, your boss is going to stand up in front of the cameras and tell the world how New Orleans is solving our crimes for us?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "I'm going to call Sheriff Talliaferro, tell him what's happened. Let's hope a reporter hasn't gotten there first."

  "Use my phone," Mike said. "We'll be down the hall second door on the left." A retreat to Breton's office would let Corlette talk to the Sheriff in privacy and give him a chance to tell Vernon they weren't ready to go before a judge. "When you finish, come get us and we'll walk over to the jail."

  Their interview with Hatch began at ten fifteen, and by ten twenty Mike knew they weren't going to get a confession. Their suspect had hired Ben Patterson, one of the city's top criminal defense lawyers. Palmer might be dead, but Hatch still had friends in high places. The man who, almost certainly, had torched Palmer's cabin insisted he never got there. He stopped at a Redi-mart on the way.

  "I'm in the men's room when I hear this loud noise, and I run back outside to see what's going on. I see the Jeep's on fire. The next thing I remember, it's Thursday morning and I'm waking up in my own bed." Hatch was the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "I must have gone into shock."

  "Does anyone have any questions for my client?" Patterson said.

  Mike gave the nod to Corlette, a courtesy that was the least he could do.

  "After the explosion, you called a pay phone at the port. So, who did you call?" The deputy's question came across as curious rather than accusatory.

  Hatch looked upward, as if searching the ceiling for an answer. "I don't remember making any phone call."

  "Has anyone told you that Jeep was booby-trapped? A kid died. We find out who's responsible, they're facing a homicide charge."

  Hatch threw a worried look at Patterson, who said, "Are you accusing Mr. Hatch of booby-trapping his own vehicle?"

  Corlette nodded to the lawyer. "Good point." Then he turned to Hatch. "You were driving the Jeep. That car bomb had your name on it. So, who wants to kill you?"

  Hatch paled and turned again to his lawyer, who shook his head, signaling silence.

  "Now if someone tried to kill me, I'd report it. Several witnesses saw you use the payphone. Who did you call?"

  "My client already told you he doesn't remember making a phone call," Paterson spoke before Hatch could respond.

  "Why didn't you call the New Orleans police when you woke up in your own bed the next morning?" Mike picked up the thread.

  "I called Frank. It was his Jeep. I left a message on his mobile phone. There wasn't time to do anything else. I had a plane to catch."

  "The whole week you were in North Carolina it never occurred to you to let your employer know his Jeep blew up?"

  "I already left a message. And my uncle doesn't have long distance. It costs extra." Hatch looked particularly pleased with this answer.

  Before anyone could formulate another question, Patterson announced that he and his client needed time to prepare for the hearing. They'd be happy to meet with the investigators later. The lawyer smiled and added, "After Mr. Hatch has been released."

  Mike suspected Patterson would be proven correct. He'd tried to talk Vernon into postponing the hearing or, failing that, releasing Hatch and keeping him under surveillance, but the Super wouldn't listen. The press c
onference had already been scheduled. He wanted an arrest. Hatch had run once. No judge would let him out.

  * * * *

  Mike, Corlette and Breton sat on the dais, while Vernon read a statement to the assembled members of the media. The Super began by saying the New Orleans PD was working in partnership with the Lafourche Sheriff's Department. He introduced Corlette first, then Mike and Breton. It wasn't an apology to Lafourche Parish, but it was public respect. Whatever good it might have done went south with Vernon's next statement.

  "We have a suspect in custody, and I expect to announce an arrest shortly."

  "Did I miss something?" Corlette muttered to Mike, while several reporters pressed Vernon for a definition of shortly.

  Corlette's question didn't call for an answer--they both knew Vernon was blowing smoke--but Mike offered an explanation. "He's convinced Claire Marshall and Hatch are behind Palmer's murder and thinks we can pressure him into a confession that will implicate her. He's overlooking the fact that every bit of evidence we have is circumstantial."

  They went directly from the press conference to the bail hearing. Vernon had assigned himself the lead role. Once again, he began with a nod to the Lafourche Sheriff's Department, which he credited with developing evidence. He put forth the identi-sketch and copies of witness statements, along with documents from the Department of Motor Vehicles showing the Jeep registered to a company owned by the late Frank Palmer.

  Ben Patterson, who'd been staring out the window with a bored expression, asked to be heard in the interest of saving time. When the judge nodded assent, Patterson said he was happy to concede every point Superintendent Vernon had made.

  "The Jeep belonged to Mr. Palmer, who employed Mr. Hatch as a driver. Although Mr. Hatch has no direct knowledge of someone trying to steal the Jeep while he was inside the store, he accepts the assertion that this occurred. No one is saying the Jeep didn't explode. We'll concede that before the police bring it up." The lawyer stepped closer to the bench and lowered his voice. "What I have not heard, and what my client vigorously denies, is that he broke any law or committed any crime. If the police have found evidence to the contrary, let them produce it. Otherwise, I'd like to go home. My son has a football game this afternoon."