Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (21 page)

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."

Vernon cited the Jeep's tire tracks at the cabin as evidence that Hatch was lying. He was
coming from, not going to, Palmer's cabin.

Patterson pointed out that it was the victim's Jeep. The tire tracks proved that Frank
Palmer visited his own cabin, another fact his client did not contest.

The judge asked for any evidence specifically linking Hatch to the cabin fire, and Vernon
came up empty-handed. The judge had heard enough. Being a victim was not a crime. They couldn't
arrest Hatch because his car exploded when someone tried to steal it. Not unless he was
responsible for the explosion, and no one had suggested that was the case. Did anyone have
anything to add?

Corlette stepped forward. "On behalf of the Lafourche Sheriff's Department, which is the
law enforcement agency with jurisdiction over the crime scene, I request that Mr. Hatch be held in
protective custody." He submitted a copy of the crime lab report and described the Jeep explosion
as an attempt on the driver's life. His was a better argument than Vernon had mounted, but it didn't
fly either. Hatch was going to be released unless someone came up with a better reason to keep him
in jail.

After the hearing, they reconvened back in Mike's office. A red-faced Vernon kicked off the
post mortem with a rant against judges who cared more about protecting criminals than protecting
the public. Without giving anyone else a chance to express their opinion, he walked out.

The sound of his footsteps faded away, and Breton started grumbling. "The Vermin isn't
happy. Neither am I. It's Saturday afternoon and I'm at work."

"We can stall releasing Hatch until Monday. That gives us the rest of today and tomorrow
to strengthen our case. In other words, you're working tomorrow," Mike said. His tone dared
Breton to protest.

"I still think Hatch is our arsonist," Corlette said. "The timing is right. Do you guys really
believe he didn't know Palmer's body was in the cabin?"

"Maybe he's a good liar." Breton shrugged.

"He's not." Mike said. Hatch's performance during the hearing would have been funny if it
weren't infuriating. Every answer began with a sideways look at his lawyer and ended with a smirk
of relief. "We've been looking at Hatch as a partner. We're wrong. He's no more than a puppet."

No one disagreed.

"Odds are the person pulling the strings is in New Orleans," Corlette said. "But if we find a
witness who saw that Jeep anywhere between the Redi-Mart and the cabin, we've caught Hatch in a
lie."

"Which might encourage him to talk." Mike finished the thought.

"I've put the word out, but I'm not expecting someone to step forward. Anyone hanging
around there was probably supposed to be somewhere else. Daniel's the best bet. I'll find out when
he's getting back."

"What about another poacher?"

Corlette shook his head. "That's Daniel's territory. But it's possible one of our local Romeos
was over there with someone else's woman." He grinned. "I'll ask the girls at the office. They always
know who's doing who."

Breton rolled his eyes but, for a change, made no wisecracks.

"We'll talk to the victim's friends and business associates," Mike said, "looking for our
puppet master."

On his way out the door, Corlette told them that his boss had been irate about the press
conference. "He thinks you guys don't know the meaning of cooperate. I told him your boss is the
problem, and I'm telling you, karma is a beautiful thing."

Mike knew what was coming. He'd been thinking about it himself.

"Vernon broke his arm patting himself on the back at that press conference," Corlette said.
"What's he going to say when some reporter notices you guys had to release your suspect for lack of
evidence? Your boss should be down on his knees thanking the Lord there weren't any cameras in
that courtroom. Hatch's lawyer had him for lunch."

"Breakfast, lunch and dinner." Breton's expression was glum.

Claire fed Dorian while her bread toasted and then carried her breakfast onto the porch.
Late October had brought cooler weather to New Orleans but no real autumn. The deciduous trees
were turning from green to rust to brown. When the leaves fell, they'd mold and rot. She missed the
northern fall. She and Tom had never planned to settle here. They had already been thinking about
apartments in New York. But after he died, and despite friends and family telling her to come home
to Michigan, she'd decided to stay. For some unfathomable reason, she felt at home here. At least
she'd felt at home until Frank's death and the marriage rumors tried to make her someone she
wasn't.

Dorian, who'd just popped out the cat door, crouched at her feet, preparing for the jump to
her lap. She tossed him a bit of toast to keep him on the floor and put her hand on the folder
Annette Fulton had given her. Last night she'd been too tired and too emotionally exhausted to
delve any further into Annie Lewis Palmer's life--her death, really. Nor did she want to now, but a
promise was a promise.

She started with the manila envelopes from Davidson Investigative Services. Each report
was barely two pages long, dry and factual. Annalisa Palmer lived near Taos New Mexico in a
commune called The Double Rainbow. She had attended the local high school and had graduated
two years ago. For the past three years, she'd worked for a small company called Dream Catchers,
making and selling jewelry.

On her eighteenth birthday, Annalisa Palmer had changed her name to Phoenix, one word.
Like the city in Arizona, the report said. Or, Claire thought, like the mythical bird that dies in flames
and is reborn from its own ashes. That would be a compelling legend for a runaway girl carving out
a new life. Claire finished the detectives' reports and set them aside.

Two envelopes remained. One, addressed to Annalisa Palmer at an RFD address in Taos,
New Mexico was marked "return to sender" and hadn't been opened. This was the letter Annette
wanted her to deliver. The other envelope, torn and crumpled, its address barely legible, contained
the explanation for a tragedy that had devastated three generations of women.

Annette said this letter had been waiting at the post office when she and Will returned
from their daughter's funeral. Will had wanted to turn right around and go back to New Orleans,
but she had said to call first and let Annalisa know they were coming for her. It was too late. She had
disappeared.

Claire held the envelope in unwilling fingers. Uneasiness about prying into the secrets of a
dead woman warred with her promise to Annette. Fear that she already knew what was written, an
explanation too awful to be true, increased her reluctance. She said a quick prayer that she be
proven wrong, and pulled out the letter.

Cramped, downward-sloping script covered both sides of a single sheet of paper. With
tortured and rambling sentences, Annie Lewis Palmer begged forgiveness for a sin that wasn't hers.
She asked her mother to rescue Annalisa, step in and do what she, herself, wasn't strong enough to
do. And then she said good-bye. Frank's wife had killed herself because she could neither stop nor
live with the horror of a husband who abused their daughter.

Claire smoothed the paper, feeling the anguish behind the words. Here was a motive for
murder.
Was it you, Annalisa? Did you wait until you were an adult? Who else knows?

She returned the letter to its envelope, carried everything Annette had given her to her
bedroom and tucked it into the back of her sweater drawer. She would deliver the letter.

* * * *

Melissa was sitting at a table in the sun. As soon as Claire joined her, a waiter stepped from
the shade of the awning and sauntered over. He asked what they wanted.

"The usual," Melissa said.

"What's the usual?" Claire asked.

"A chocolate croissant and a double cappuccino." The waiter answered. "What can I get for
you, baby?"

"The same thing, please." She smiled at Melissa. "This is a treat. I usually have tea and toast
for breakfast." Earlier this morning, she'd left that breakfast uneaten.

"I have tea and toast when I'm sick."

Claire ignored the dig. "I'm glad we were able to get together."

"Have you got the key? Hatch is back, and I don't want him to know I gave it to you."

"Oh no! I left my sweater in his kitchen. He'll know. Tell him it's yours. Please." She should
have retrieved her sweater no matter what Felix said.

"He hasn't been home. The cops arrested him at the airport, and he's still in jail."

"Why did they arrest him?"

"Because he's an ex-con. Because they can." Anger made Melissa's voice harsh. "They have
nothing on him. I got him a good lawyer, and the judge said to let him go. Yesterday. But
everything's closed on the weekend, and the cops are using that as an excuse. He's stuck until
Monday morning." Her anger ebbed as quickly as it had appeared, and now she only looked tired.
"You have plenty of time to get your sweater."

The waiter reappeared with their order. Neither spoke until he'd left.

"I'll get it and return the key this afternoon," Claire said.

"Drop it off at the shop. Sundays I'm open one to five." Melissa tore off a piece of the
croissant and put it into her mouth.

Claire looked for something that would reveal how this young woman, who'd made it clear
she and Frank were lovers, was dealing with his sudden death. It must have left an empty space in
her life. Did she remember his breath on her skin, how he held her? Or had she, too, lost all memory
of love's touch?

"What do you want?" Melissa said.

"Excuse me?"

"You could've picked up your sweater and dropped off the key anytime. Instead you call
this morning and want to meet for brunch. So, what do you really want? Frank is all we ever had in
common, and he's dead." She spooned more sugar onto her cappuccino.

"The police think I had something to do with his death."

"They questioned you. They questioned me. They arrested Hatch the minute he walked off
the airplane."

"They're still watching me. A squad car will drive by any minute now."

"Cops drive through here. They drive past my shop. I don't get paranoid."

As if summoned by their conversation, a police car rounded the corner and moved slowly
past the café.

"He looked right at us," Claire said.

"He's a man." Melissa broke off another piece of croissant and licked the chocolate filling.
"Men look."

"I talked to Annette Fulton yesterday. She was Frank's mother-in-law."

"I know who she is. She hated Frank. Maybe she's the one who killed him."

"She's confined to a wheelchair."

"She could have hired a hit man." Melissa smiled, as if the idea of a murderous Annette
Fulton was funny.

"She asked me if I killed Frank."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said no. Do you think I killed Frank?"

"I don't think you're the type. But maybe no one's the type until they're pushed into a
corner. Then, maybe everyone is." Melissa busied herself spooning up the sugar crystals, now
melted into shiny dots on the froth of her cappuccino. "Annie Lewis was a lush. Did her mother tell
you that?"

"No."

"Frank hushed it up, but she was driving drunk that day, like every other day. The old lady
couldn't face the truth, and so she blamed Frank, made a big point of snubbing him at the funeral.
Then she got on her broom and flew back to Alabama."

Jeanette had said essentially the same thing, and she, too, blamed Annie Lewis' parents. All
either woman heard was Frank's side of the story. They would have wanted to believe him.

"She told me about Annalisa," Claire said. "I guess you know she ran away?"

"Of course I know." Melissa's tone said this was a stupid question.

"Do you know where she is? Did Frank know?"

"If I knew I wouldn't tell you. Annalisa wants to be left alone. And she's crazy, totally nuts."
She shook her head. "I used to live in The Children's Home, and I've seen some screwed-up girls, but
nothing like her. Maybe she's the psycho killer."

"Why do you call her crazy?" She held her breath, waiting for Melissa's answer.

"Why are you digging around in Frank's past? It doesn't matter anymore. He's dead." She
stopped playing with her cappuccino. "Someone killed Frank. If it wasn't you, and it wasn't me..."
She let the thought hang.