Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (13 page)

"What did Boy Wonder have to say?" Lieutenant Breton was leaning against the doorframe,
a file folder in his hand.

"Come on in and close the door." He relayed the autopsy results.

"Oh shit," Breton groaned. "Wait until the press gets hold of this. I can see the headline,
'Civic leader murdered during drug orgy.'" He rubbed his face as if trying to erase the lines his job
had put there. "Lethal levels of alcohol and downers, suffocated, and burned--are we sure there
wasn't a silver bullet? A stake through his heart?"

"They're faxing the autopsy. When we get it, I want you to call Palmer's physician to see if
any prescriptions match the drugs found in his body. I'll check with Claire Marshall's doctor."

"She was out of it in Gilbert's office."

Mike nodded agreement. "Yesterday evening she popped a pill when she thought I wasn't
looking." He'd seen her reflection in the window. "She was in Lafourche Parish today." He repeated
the citizen's arrest story. Now that he had time to think about it, it really was funny.

Breton cracked up. "Corlette's poacher sounds like a real piece of work."

"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.

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.