Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (6 page)

The trip to Frank's cabin hadn't resulted in any dents or scrapes, but Felicia's
dirt-encrusted grill and mud-splattered sides called for more than a hosing off. She fixed herself a piece
of peanut butter toast--she was starved--got dressed and went looking for a car wash open on
Sunday morning.

By the time she returned home, it was almost noon, and there were no new messages on
her answering machine. She tried without success to reach Frank, decided she didn't want to talk to
Bobby and called the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department. The switchboard operator put her
through to Deputy Jason Corlette, who recognized her name and said he'd been planning to call
her.

"I think I recognized the man in the drawing, the man who was driving the Jeep. It looks
like Hatch, Frank Palmer's driver."

Two hours later, she sat across from his desk. The deputy looked young and very Cajun,
with dark hair and sharp features. His voice had sounded harsh on the phone, but in person, it was
deep and twangy, like a country singer's.

"Thank you for coming in, Miss Marshall. Or is it Mrs.?"

His eyes slid down to her left hand, and she tucked it under her arm, hiding the band of
pale flesh that was the ghost of her wedding ring. "Claire is fine."

Although she'd agreed to let him tape the interview, he also took notes. She told him about
recognizing Hatch, adding the caveat that she wasn't absolutely certain because she'd only spoken
to him once. "I don't really know him." Nor did she want to.

She'd seen Hatch sitting behind the wheel while he waited for Frank, but they hadn't
spoken until the first time she and Frank went out to dinner. Frank had suggested they take his car
and introduced his driver. Hatch, who responded to Frank's orders with squared shoulders and
immediate obedience, had flicked a dismissive glance in her direction and grunted a hello. He'd
pulled away from the curb while she was reaching forward to shake hands.

At dinner, her inhibitions loosened by two glasses of wine, she'd asked Frank why he
employed such an ill-mannered chauffeur. He laughed it off, but that was the last time she saw
Hatch. From then on, when they met at his cottage, Frank drove himself.

"It looks as if your identification is on target," Deputy Corlette said. "What else can you tell
us about Mr. Hatch?"

"He works for Frank Palmer, drives him around and runs errands. That's all I know."

"All you know about Hatch," he qualified her statement. "What about the cabin that
burned? What were you doing there?"

"I wanted to talk to Frank--Mr. Palmer. My company is renovating a cottage he owns in
New Orleans, and he's been asking me to look at his cabin--the one that burned. He wants to fix it
up. Yesterday was a nice day for a drive." She shrugged. "I had some free time."

Each statement was true, but together they obscured the truth. At least she hoped so. She
wanted to avoid the complicated and ridiculous story of not being engaged to Frank Palmer,
especially because she wasn't absolutely sure he was the one telling people. But if not Frank, who
else?

"You called us from a restaurant in Grand Isle."

Claire nodded. The sheriff's department must have traced her call.

"You drove all the way to the beach before reporting the fire?"

His question could have been an accusation, but his sympathetic tone made it sound like an
effort to understand. Would he understand if she told him that she suffered a panic attack and ran
to the water the way a wounded animal runs to its lair? She'd have to admit that taking too much
Xanax had clouded her judgment. She'd driven when she shouldn't.

"I didn't see any other cabins," she said, "and once I was on the highway, I just kept going. It
wasn't far."

He tapped his pen on several papers that were lying face down on his desk. A half frown
raised his eyebrows and gave him a puzzled expression. "What did you do the rest of the day?"

"I walked on the beach, went swimming. It was a spur of the moment trip. I had to buy
myself a bathing suit and a beach towel." She tried a little joke. "The store was having an end of
season clearance. I bought a new outfit too. Can't resist a sale."

He ignored her weak attempt at humor, and Claire put herself in his shoes. A deputy sheriff
would see nothing amusing about a woman who ran away from a burned cabin and went to the
beach. What would he think if he knew that at least four hours elapsed between the time she
discovered the fire and the time she reported it? Did he suspect she'd delayed calling about Hatch
because she hoped someone else would call first? She wasn't like Tom, who saw a house on fire and
ran inside because he could help.

"Claire?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" She brought herself back to the present.

"What did you do with the clothes you were wearing?"

"I threw them away." When he looked surprised, she said, "They were filthy and torn. I fell
in the mud on the path to the dock."

"You said this was your first visit to Mr. Palmer's cabin." When she nodded, he continued,
"Your first trip, and you drove alone from New Orleans to an isolated cabin on the off chance that
he'd be there?"

"It was more than an off chance. His secretary said he was there or out fishing." She raised
her chin and looked him in the eye. "I drive alone to lots of places."

He made another note and asked several questions about what she'd done after finding the
burned cabin. Then he just sat there, as if he had all the time in the world to listen to whatever she
had to say and to wait for her to get around to whatever she wasn't saying.

"I'm worried about Frank. I've been unable to reach him. I thought he and Hatch had gone
somewhere in the Jeep, but the news said Hatch was alone. Do you know? Has something
happened?"

Deputy Corlette put his pen down and picked up the top piece of paper. His eyes flicked
from whatever was written on it to her face.

"What?" Claire said, alarmed by his solemn expression.

"I regret to inform you that we found a man's body in the cabin. From all indications, it is
Frank Palmer" He put the paper down and placed his notepad on top of it.

"Oh, no. That's awful. I'm so sorry." Frank's body had been there the whole time. No
wonder that clearing had felt haunted. She shuddered. If she'd gone inside that burned cabin, she
would have found him.

"I know it's a shock. Are you all right?"

"I'd convinced myself they weren't there," she said, "that they were out in another boat or
off in the Jeep. Even after I saw Hatch on TV... I don't understand what could have happened. Why
he didn't get out."

"We're trying to understand, too. So, can you tell us anything that might make our job
easier?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. If I think of anything, I'll contact you, but..." She raised
her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

After a long silence, he stood up. "So, thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Marshall. I'll walk
you to your car. I'd like to stretch my legs before my next meeting."

Claire had intended to drive back to New Orleans but once in the car, she changed her
mind. She wanted to go to the beach, sit and watch the waves, while she digested the horrible news
about Frank. At Grand Isle she parked in the same lot. Thick clouds had replaced yesterday's
sunshine, and the beach, crowded yesterday, was deserted except for a scattering of fishermen. A
cool wind off the water raised goose bumps on her arms.

She sat well up the beach and looked out at the water, gray now and blending into the
clouds at an invisible horizon. Twenty yards off shore, waves rose from the choppy surface, each
one crested with a pale line of foam. When a wave reached the shallows, it lifted and curled inward
as if it had changed its mind and wanted to return to the depths, but those behind permitted no
retreat. They pushed forward until the lead wave broke on the beach and melted into the sand. In
the shallows, the next one had already begun curling inward.

Lingering backwash from an exceptionally large breaker might reduce the ensuing landfall
to disorganized churning, but the waves that followed always restored order. The implacable Gulf
sacrificed wave after wave on the shore as it had done for thousands of years and would continue to
do long after she and everyone she loved had turned to dust. That thought, which could have been
depressing, reassured her. She lay on her stomach, chin on her fists and elbows in the sand, and
watched the waves.

Happy chattering announced the arrival of two boys carrying boogie boards. They raced
toward the water and stepped onto their boards, but the small dog that accompanied them hung
back, barking anxiously. The boys skittered along the wash of the waves, miraculously afloat on an
inch of water. The dog, an indeterminate mix, stayed as close as he could without getting his paws
wet, charging and retreating as the waves ebbed and flowed.

Claire watched, amused by the dog's antics and by the boys' nonchalance. With their hard,
skinny bodies and still soft faces, they looked about ten or eleven, children on the verge of
adolescence. Tanned skin and sun-bleached hair testified to long hours spent in the sun.

A big wave broke, and the dog scampered up the beach. The smaller boy tottered
precariously between the necessities of hitching up his shorts and spreading his arms for balance.
Somehow, he managed to reach out and hold on at the same time.

Claire clapped. "Very good. Nice recovery."

He turned and smiled, as if pleased by praise from a stranger. The dog came over to Claire
for a pat on the head and ventured a hopeful snuffle at her pocketbook. The dog returned to his
duties, and the boys moved on.

She checked her watch and was reminded of Frank's extravagant gift. What on earth was
she going to do with it now?

She watched the boys, now halfway down the beach, and had an inspiration. Return the
watch to the store--there was a name on the box--and donate the money to the Children's Home in
Frank's memory. He was a longtime supporter and on the board.

It was the right thing to do.

The desk officer at the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office directed Mike and Breton to Jason
Corlette's office. The deputy got the meeting off to a fast start by announcing the fire at Palmer's
cabin was arson. He pushed a folder across his desk. "The report. It's preliminary, but there's no
doubt. Gasoline was the accelerant. Early next week, the lab promises a timeframe."

Mike flipped through the document and passed it on to Breton who glanced at the cover
and put it down.

"The med tech says it looked to him like Palmer was dead before the fire. An autopsy is
scheduled for Monday morning, and we'll find out if he was right or not. Given the arson finding..."
Corlette shrugged. He slid another folder across the desk. "Here's what we found in the cabin"

"You've accomplished a lot in less than twenty four hours." Mike was relieved. The Sheriff's
Department had already initiated every action he and Vernon discussed. Lafourche Parish had to be
less than thrilled about New Orleans taking an interest in their case, but Corlette had no visible chip
on his shoulder, and he was making every effort to be cooperative.

Corlette's smile acknowledged the compliment. He picked up a stack of photographs and
laid them on his desk as if he was dealing cards. "These pictures, they're from the scene." He
pointed to a photograph of muddy handprints. "From Palmer's boat. They belong to a woman
named Claire Marshall."

"How do you know that?" Mike raised an eyebrow.

Breton, who'd been slumped in his chair with his eyes half shut, came to life. "
Cherchez
la femme
, and we've found her."

Corlette looked from one to the other. "She's not hiding. She's stepped forward twice,
yesterday to report the burned cabin and today to identify the driver of Palmer's Jeep."

"What's she like?" Breton said. "We've never met her."

"Nice looking, but a little skinny for my taste. Five-seven, five-eight, maybe one twenty-five.
Red hair, dark not orange. She was cooperative, drove right down to talk to me. Still, her story is
strange."

"We'd like to hear it," Mike said.

"I taped the interview, and we're making you a copy, but I can give you a quick recap." After
summarizing, he said, "One thing isn't on the tape. When we finished, I walked her out to her car.
She has a bright blue Miata, sits about six inches off the ground. I said it was a good thing she hadn't
driven it down to the cabin. She said she had. It was clean because she'd just run it through a car
wash."

Breton leaned forward, forearms on Corlette's desk. "Strange? She drives all the way down
here looking for Palmer, finds his cabin burned to a cinder, and goes to the beach? She disposes of
the clothes she was wearing and runs her vehicle through a car wash. You call it strange. I call it
destroying the evidence. And you just let her walk out of here?"

"I had no reason to detain her."

"You have an attractive young woman and a rich older man. He falls for her, and
voila
." Breton slapped the desk. "He's a rich older dead man. This is not a new story. Five will
get you ten she's in his will." His expression said they'd finished their investigation. It was time to
go home.

"Nor is it the only possible story." Mike gave Breton a hard look. He could be right on
target, but that wasn't the issue. They were on Corlette's turf, asking for and receiving full
cooperation. There was no indication that Claire Marshall was avoiding law enforcement--just the
opposite. They'd catch up with her later.

He moved on to the next topic. "Do you know where Palmer's Jeep fits in?"

"It's a second suspicious and fatal fire. Witnesses told us both the Jeep and the driver
smelled strongly of gasoline. Here are their statements." He added paper to the growing stack on
their side of the desk. "The driver parked and went inside, leaving the windows wide open. A group
of kids was hanging around, and one decided to take the Jeep for a ride. Moments after he entered
the vehicle, it exploded. Yesterday he died. So, there's one less juvenile delinquent in Lafourche
Parish."