Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (9 page)

The solution stared him in the face. He just didn't want to see it. The family shrimp boat
was going back out first thing tomorrow. No killer could track him down on the boat. The old man
didn't know where they'd be one day to the next--it depended on the catch and the weather. He'd be
safe, but sanctuary came at a high price, two or three weeks stuck on a thirty-foot boat with his
father and three older brothers giving him orders like he was a little kid.

He spat into the water.
Like I have a choice.
He motored back to Ray's, keeping an
eye out for unfamiliar boats.

He winched his boat out of the water, unscrewed the plugs to let her drain and carefully
hosed off the salt. His boat was top of the line. A sixteen foot fiberglass bateau, it could float in eight
inches of water yet had enough freeboard to handle the Gulf on calm days. His motor was one of the
new four-stroke Hondas. It cost more but ran quieter and used less fuel than any two-stroke. He'd
worked hard to pay for that boat, and he took good care of it.

At midmorning, the café was empty, but pots bubbling on the stove said Ray hadn't
gone far. Daniel heard voices and checked the back room.

Ray's fat ass hung out of a booth in the corner, where he was talking to someone. Daniel
couldn't see who. He pushed open the bathroom door. The sign said unisex, but that was a joke.
Obscene suggestions and centerfolds torn from girlie magazines covered all four walls, and some
athlete had drawn a naked woman on the ceiling. If any female had ever walked into this dump,
forget used the bathroom, it was news to him.

The sports page on top of the tank reminded him that the rest of the paper should be out
front. He hadn't wanted to seem too interested when he was talking to Bill Reese, but he wanted to
learn more about that fire. Like, did the sheriff's department suspect it was no accident? He finished
his business and returned to the front room. The newspaper wasn't on the counter.

"Hey Ray," he hollered. "Where's the paper?"

His cousin lumbered out of the back room, a balding man wearing a dirty apron over a
t-shirt and the biggest pants Levi sold. He carried his morning beer in one hand and the newspaper in
the other.

"You want the sports page?" He flipped through. "It ain't here."

"It's in the can. I was looking for the rest."

Ray put his beer down and leaned on the counter until his nose was inches away from
Daniel's and stared with this bug-eyed look on his face. Then he started shifting his eyes from one
side to the other.

Daniel drew back. "What's with you? How about getting me a cup of coffee. You got a fresh
pot?" He picked up the front section.

"Just coffee? Sure you don't want a bowl of gumbo?" Ray lifted the lid off a big pot. He held
the lid in one hand and twitched the thumb of his other hand toward the back room.

"No thanks." The gumbo smelled good, but he was too worried to be hungry, and Ray's
weird behavior wasn't helping.

Before he could ask what the hell was going on, Ray got back in his face. "Jason Corlette," he
whispered.

Daniel caught on. Jason must be here asking about the fire. He nodded to show he got the
message. Jason wasn't a bad guy, but everyone knew he was the sharpest deputy in the department,
which made him the last lawman he wanted to see.

"Did you hear about the cabin that burned over on Bayou Perdu?" Ray poured a cup of
coffee. "The paper says the propane blew. The owner was inside. A guy named Frank Palmer. You
know who I'm talking about? He'd stop in sometimes, pick up some gumbo to go."

"I might know him if I saw him."

"It was one of them tragic things," Ray continued. "Palmer was getting married next
weekend. This woman he was going to marry, she's already a widow. And now her fiancé,
he's gone too. Man, you got to feel for her." Ray wiped the counter with a dirty rag and put the
coffee down. "You didn't hear about this?"

"Yeah, I did. I ran into Bill Reese and he asked me about it but I couldn't help him." Daniel
spoke loud and clear so that Jason could hear every word. "I never go over there. That water's
posted, and I got nothing to do with oysters these days. I'm working on the old man's boat." The
coffee tasted as if it had been sitting on the burner for a week. He pushed the cup away. "This stuff
sucks."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with my coffee."

"Sorry. I didn't mean no harm. I've been sick to my stomach. You know how you get sick
and everything tastes off."

Out of the corner of his eye Daniel saw Jason Corlette duck to avoid hitting his head on the
low doorframe. He stared into his coffee cup and wished he'd left when he had the chance.

"Maybe you got a bad oyster?" Jason took a stool a couple down and spun around to face
him, like they were buddies hanging out together.

"Hey man, how're you doing?" He played along. "How's the deputy business?"

"Keeps me busy. Hey, I'm sorry about Jimmy Orielle. He was kin to your mother wasn't
he?"

"She's related to half the parish, but thanks." Jimmy had died Saturday morning. The
doctors said the third day was crucial for burn victims, and he hadn't made it. The fact that he got
burned trying to hotwire someone's Jeep made it worse. He was a little wild sometimes, but not a
bad kid. He would have outgrown it if he'd lived a little longer.

"I heard Ray telling you about the cabin fire." Jason said. "I'm here looking for someone
who might have seen what happened."

"I already told Bill Reese, you're not looking for me. I never go over there. And last couple
of days, I've been sick, not going anywhere." He was pretty sure Jason hadn't noticed anything
funny about his reaction, but he needed to be real careful and keep acting natural and try to find out
how much Jason knew. "We had some weather last week. Did the cabin get hit by lightning?"

"The fire was arson."

"Goddamn, that's terrible." They knew. He didn't have to feel bad about not saying
anything.

"So, you remember Lucille? Little brunette, nice legs, she answers the phone at
headquarters."

"Maybe," Daniel said, puzzled by the change in topic.

"She thought Palmer's name sounded familiar, and so she checked her old notes. Sure
enough, he called about you, not even two weeks ago."

"Me? No way."

"He said you were taking oysters from posted water up by his cabin."

"It wasn't me." He really felt sick now. "I didn't know the guy, and he didn't know me. This
morning is the first I've heard his name, and that's 'cause his cabin blew up."

"So how do you know that it blew up?"

"Ray just told me it was the propane. You must of heard him. What the hell is this?" He
acted indignant, an innocent man wrongly accused.

"I'm looking for a witness," Jason said. "I don't care where you get oysters."

"Hey man, I told you, no oysters, and I don't know nothing about the fire."

"So, when I arrived, your truck was outside, but you weren't around, and your boat was
gone. I hear a boat come in, and a few minutes later, you walk in. Don't bullshit me Daniel."

"What you heard was me motoring over to the winch. What I been doing is putting my boat
up. I ain't going to be using it for a while, because I'm going out with the old man."

Jason leaned back and stretched his legs out, settling in. "It's not just the sheriff," he said.
"The New Orleans cops, they're interested, too. They're helping us with the investigation."

"So what?"

"So, when we tell them about Palmer's phone call, they're going to think you torched the
cabin in some kind of retaliation. Me?" Jason pointed to his own chest. "I don't see it that way."

"I didn't torch nothing. Who the hell are you, accusing me of that kind of shit?" This time,
his indignation was genuine.

"No accusation, I'm just warning you how it looks bad. Palmer reports you poaching near
his cabin. Two weeks go by, his cabin burns down, and he's dead inside it."

Daniel kept quiet, trying to figure out how much Jason knew and how much he was
guessing. No way Palmer gave them his name, but he could have caught the name of his boat.

"I know you, and I know you take oysters from posted water. That's between you and the
boys from Wildlife and Fisheries." Jason waved his hand like he was brushing away a pesky fly. "I
don't see you torching any cabins. The New Orleans cops, they don't know you. They won't
understand the way you look at things. So, you have a choice. You can talk to me or you can talk to
them."

"I don't have to talk to no one. Last I heard this was still a free country." Daniel threw a
buck on the counter. "For the coffee," he told Ray, who was standing there looking stupid.

He slid off the stool and stomped out the door, praying that he'd make it to his truck
without feeling Jason's big hand on his shoulder. He pulled out of the parking lot, safe for now, but
he'd better catch up with the old man. He'd be in deep shit if Jason got there first and found out no
one knew anything about him joining the crew.

Claire pushed through a heavy revolving door into a stunning lobby. Light streamed
through stained glass windows high on the back wall, marble tiled the floors and elaborate brass
geometry framed the elevators. She told the man at the information desk that she had an
appointment with Paul Gilbert and, after signing in, asked if Frank Lloyd Wright had been involved
in the design of the building.

"The architect was one of Wright's disciples." He gave her a quick history of the building,
speaking with the zeal of a man who is delighted to have found a fellow enthusiast. "The local
preservation society begins one of its tours with this building. The next one starts at
two-thirty."

"I don't think I'll be finished in time." Paul had told her to schedule an hour. "But I'd rather
be going on the tour." She'd rather be changing Dorian's litter box. Waiting upstairs were two
policemen and a lawyer, all of whom probably thought she'd been engaged to Frank Palmer.

Despite her taking an extra half pill, apprehension made her hands clammy. The bubble
waited, threatening to close in if they started talking about... What? She couldn't predict her panic
attacks. Finding the burned cabin triggered one, but learning Frank's body was inside hadn't.
Months of counseling hadn't helped her find the cause. Still, she dreaded this meeting. Maybe she
should take the other half.

Paul's offices were on the fifth floor. The elevator opened into a reception area, less
dramatic but equally as elegant as the downstairs lobby. An attractive, middle-aged woman looked
up from her computer monitor and smiled a welcome. "You must be Claire. I'm Suzanne. Let me
show you to the small conference room. They're waiting."

"Nice to meet you, Suzanne." She forced a return smile. "Is there a ladies' room?"

"Down that hall, second door on the right. I'll tell them you're here."

Claire locked the bathroom door and leaned against it, taking slow deep breaths, telling
herself there was nothing to fear. She swallowed the other half pill, replaced the lipstick she'd
chewed off, and walked back to the reception desk.

"I'm ready now."

Paul, Lieutenant Breton and a nice looking dark-haired man she'd never seen before sat at
a small conference table. They stood when she walked in, Lieutenant Breton the last on his feet. The
stranger introduced himself as Mike Robinson. Paul pulled out the empty chair next to his. The two
policemen sat across the table. Behind them a window showed blue sky.

"Captain Robinson heads the police department's homicide division, Claire," Paul
murmured as he seated her.

Homicide? Had Frank been murdered? Before she could ask, Paul offered her something to
drink. She requested water and took a sip to moisten her dry mouth. Everyone was watching her as
if waiting for her to say something. Deliberately she looked out the window and imagined waves
rising from the sky and rolling across her field of vision.

"Why do you want to talk to me, Captain Robinson?" She knew the answer, but she wanted
more time to compose herself, more time for that last bit of Xanax to kick in.

"We're investigating the death of Frank Palmer. What can you tell us about him?"

"Frank hired my company to restore a cottage he owned. I was looking for him Saturday
morning. I found the burned cabin and reported it to the local authorities. When I saw the picture of
Frank's driver on the news, I called them again. Deputy Corlette asked me to come to his office and
be interviewed. I understand you have the tape of our conversation." Her statement probably
sounded rehearsed. It was.

"Why were you looking for Mr. Palmer?"

"There was a problem with a check. His bank covered it, but still..." Mentioning the rumor
about being engaged to Frank would only lend it credence. Let him bring it up.

"You drove all that way about a check the bank had covered?"

"I also wanted to see the cabin. Frank was planning to fix it up. He'd asked me to prepare a
cost estimate." She caught the flicker of disbelief on Paul's face and added, "He didn't want anyone
else to know. It was going to be a surprise for his fishing buddies."

Captain Robinson made a note. "Mr. Palmer had his own construction company, but he
hired yours?"

"His company works on large commercial projects. Authentic Restorations specializes in
historic houses, small projects like the cottage we're restoring for Frank." She relaxed, comfortable
with this topic. "He won it in a bet, and then he learned it was dilapidated. He couldn't tear it down
because it had been designated historic. The previous owner had been trying to sell it for years.
Frank planned to get the last laugh by fixing it up and selling it for a good price. He hired us to do
the work."

"I wondered about Frank's sudden interest in historic preservation," Paul said, "but I
thought he'd bought that place."

"Our typical client is a young couple with a tight budget," Claire continued. "Frank was
different. He kept close track of expenses, but he could afford to do everything right--and did."