Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (10 page)

"You met Mr. Palmer when he hired your firm?" Captain Robinson said.

"We met at The Children's Home last spring when I spoke at a seminar on non-traditional
careers for women. It was part of their program for adolescent girls, which Frank sponsors.
Afterwards, he came up and introduced himself. Later--I think it was the third week in August--he
called and asked me to look at this cottage. He liked my proposal and signed the contract. We began
work last month."

"You must be aware that people believe you and Mr. Palmer planned to marry."

"People are mistaken." Paul was one of those people. She looked for his reaction but saw
none.

"So where did everybody get this crazy idea?" Lieutenant Breton, who'd been slouched in
his chair with his eyes half closed, spoke for the first time.

Before she could respond, Paul put a restraining hand on her arm. "You're asking Claire to
speculate. While she isn't, strictly speaking, a client, I volunteered to sit in during this interview,
and I always advise against speculation." He removed his hand. "You should do what you think best,
Claire, but the wise course is usually to answer the specific question and stick to what you know is
true. You'd agree with that wouldn't you, Mike?"

Captain Robinson nodded agreement, but he didn't retract his partner's question.

"I don't know," Claire said. Without Paul's intervention, she would have told them that she
thought Frank was the source, and then had to explain why. And maybe she was wrong. She'd be
here all afternoon, speculating.
Thank you, Paul
.

"How would you describe your relationship with Frank Palmer?" Captain Robinson
said.

"Cordial. A business relationship, but cordial." As she spoke, Claire felt everyone's eyes on
her.

Paul was watching her carefully, without expression. What must he be thinking?

Lieutenant Breton's hound-dog face conveyed a bored contempt. Well, she didn't have
much use for him either.

Captain Robinson's blue gaze was thoughtful. He didn't miss a thing. If she were a criminal,
she wouldn't want him investigating her. "Did you consider him a friend?" he said.

His question caught her by surprise. She didn't, but she was reluctant to say so in front of
Paul. She settled on a white lie. "If we'd had time to become better acquainted, I think we'd have
become friends."

"Didn't the two of you go out socially?"

"No."

"Not even an occasional dinner date?" Captain Robinson's attention never wavered.

She glanced at Paul, who was staring down at the table. One evening when she and Frank
were eating dinner at Mother's, Paul had stopped by the table to say hello and stayed to chat until
their food arrived. He must have mentioned it to the police.

"Only working dinners," she said. "When you're restoring an old house, especially one
that's in bad shape, you really don't know what you have until you open the walls. Friday
afternoons, Frank and I would meet on site to evaluate the situation, explore alternatives, and
discuss plans for the next week. If it got late, we continued our discussion over dinner."

"People who saw you together might assume your relationship went beyond
business?"

Once again, Captain Robinson made the statement a question. Deputy Corlette had used the
same technique. Maybe all policemen did. She found it annoying.

"Two single adults, working closely together," he continued. "It would have been natural
for a relationship to develop?"

"Our relationship was purely business."

"Your social engagements with Frank Palmer amounted to a few after-work dinners?"

"No social engagements, four working dinners since we've been working on his
cottage."

"Who paid for the meals?" Lieutenant Breton said.

"Frank did. If he hadn't picked up the check, I would have billed the project. He knew that.
Pay now or pay later. Those were working dinners." The police could ask their question as many
different ways as they wanted. Her answer wouldn't change.

"You drove down to Mr. Palmer's cabin Saturday morning?"

"I did, and Deputy Corlette already asked about that. It's all on the tape."

"We just want to be sure you didn't forget anything."

"Why did you wash your car?" Lieutenant Breton said.

"It was covered with mud." She looked to Paul, silently asking how many more stupid
questions she'd have to answer, but she didn't really care. The extra meds had kicked in and she
was floating a few inches above the table.

"When was the last time you saw Frank Palmer?" Captain Robinson moved on.

"He drove me to the airport Monday afternoon."

"Do your clients usually drive you around?" Lieutenant Breton said.

"Did he drive or did Hatch?" Captain Robinson said.

"Frank drove. He wanted to talk to me, and he knew I was going to be gone for a
week."

"Did he appear to be under stress?"

She remembered the scene about the fish camp, but that was several days earlier. Frank
had seemed fine on the trip to the airport. "Nothing unusual. Construction is a high-stress business."
She shrugged. "I'm not sure I knew Frank well enough to judge his moods."

"I have another appointment," Paul said. "You told me to schedule an hour. We're running
over." His statement brought the session to an end.

"If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch." Captain Robinson said. "Thank you for
your excellent coffee, Paul."

"I hope you don't mind if I let Suzanne show you to the elevator."

"Not at all."

After the policemen left Claire said, "Thank you for keeping my foot out of my mouth." Paul
looked startled and she clarified. "Speculating. Please, let me pay you for your time."

"Absolutely not. It's all part of my job as Frank's executor." He glanced at the clock. "There
are additional considerations involving the estate that I'd like to discuss with you, but time is
running short. Perhaps you'd prefer to meet at a later date"

"What? Oh, the cottage. I wasn't thinking." The pills had transformed the terrifying bubble
into a soft cocoon, warm and welcoming, but not conducive to making business decisions. "You're
right. I'd rather wait a few days."

"Whenever you're ready. May I call you a cab?"

His receptionist made the call while he walked her to the elevator.

Before she stepped in, Claire said, "I'm sorry. Very sorry." And she really was. She was
sorry that his friend had died, sorry that she might be making him feel worse by insisting she and
Frank hadn't been engaged, sorry that she'd taken up so much of his time. Paul seemed like a nice
man, and she was sorry to burden him. She'd write him a thank you note the minute she returned to
the office--no, not her office, home. She was tired and a little fuzzy.

The meeting hadn't been the expected ordeal. Captain Robinson was a pleasant surprise,
well-spoken and courteous. He'd introduced himself as Mike, but Captain fit him better. He and Paul
were an interesting contrast. Both were tall, dark-haired, nice looking men and about the same
age--early forties, she'd guess. Both were intelligent and articulate, but otherwise very different: the
urbane lawyer versus the observant investigator. Sloppy rude Lieutenant Breton had been the odd
man out.

When the taxi dropped her off at the estate entrance, Claire saw that the pedestrian gate
was open again and made a mental note to speak to the Clarke's housekeeper about setting the lock.
She ambled down the winding drive, stopping to inhale the heady scent of a late-blooming gardenia.
Living behind the Clarke mansion was like having her own private park. She'd been lucky to find
such a wonderful rental. The moment she opened her front door, the phone started ringing. It's
shrill tone shattered her hazy calm.

The calls had begun that morning, soon after Lieutenant Breton left. Frank's friends, people
she'd never met, offered their condolences and asked if there was anything they could do for her.
People she and Tom had known, doctors who'd worked with him and people she hadn't seen since
his funeral, were calling too. At first, she'd tried to explain. Of course, she was saddened by Frank's
death, but there was never any romance, no marriage plans. The news stories were inaccurate. He
was a client, not a lover.

Reactions ranged from embarrassed laughter to incredulity, and Claire realized her
untenable position. If Frank were alive, when time passed with no marriage, everyone would see
the truth, no matter who said what. But he was dead, and she couldn't prove a negative. After
several uncomfortable conversations, she gave up and let the answering machine screen her
calls.

She waited to hear this message, expecting another stranger's voice, but this time it was
her mother, and she sounded upset.

The moment Claire hung up from soothing her outraged mother, the phone rang again. She
recognized Captain Robinson's voice on the answering machine and grabbed the receiver.

"What do you want?" Before he could respond, she lit into him. "I just spent half an hour on
the phone with my mother, trying to reassure her that I'm not on my way to jail. Was it absolutely
necessary for Lieutenant Breton to call her--and the Ryans? Why did he have to call them?"

"It wasn't our intention to upset your mother. We were verifying your statement."

"You were verifying
her
statement. When my mother said neighbors had hosted a
party for her, Lieutenant Breton asked for their names and contact information.

"Your partner embarrassed my mother. Lucy Ryan will probably tell all of Centreville about
the call from the New Orleans police.

"Why did you feel it necessary to verify something as innocuous as my mother's birthday
party? And why are homicide detectives investigating Frank's death?"

He ignored both questions. "I'd like to talk with you again. You and Mr. Gilbert, if that's
your preference. It shouldn't take long."

"I've already imposed on Paul's good will today."

"Tomorrow would be fine, but I thought you might want to get it over with."

"I do. And there's no reason to bother Paul." She agreed to meet him in his office at
five-thirty.

When she arrived, he was on the phone. He waved her toward a straight-backed chair
facing his desk, held up one finger and told the person on the other end that his guest had arrived.
Guest?

That was not how she saw it. She folded her hands in her lap, crossed her ankles like a
wayward pupil called to the principal's office and looked around.

His office walls were barren of pictures and painted that unfortunate green someone in
government had decided was restful. Fixed windows looked out on the brick wall of a neighboring
building. An electric coffeemaker, bottled water and a stack of Styrofoam cups sat on the
windowsill, the only signs of human occupancy. His desk was clear except for a stacked
inbox-outbox, full but not overflowing, and the phone.

She couldn't imagine working in such a sterile environment. Her office was controlled
chaos with stacks of paper covering the horizontal surfaces and color-coded Post-Its stuck to the
wall behind her desk. It was also light and airy, with three windows that opened and potted plants
on the sills. And despite the untidy appearance, she knew exactly where everything was.

"Thank you for coming in." He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "I'd like to start by
clarifying the situation. You're here at my invitation, of your own free will. You haven't been
charged with a crime, but we're going to discuss events that could lead to criminal charges.
Anything you say could be used against you in a court of law. You can refuse to answer any question
if, in your opinion, the answer could be incriminating. If, at any point, you decide you want a lawyer
present, we'll adjourn until you can arrange counsel."

Paul had warned against speculating, and now this policeman warned about incriminating
herself. Criminals were warned, not witnesses. She wasn't a criminal. She squared her shoulders.
"Take notes. Tape it. I don't care."

"We're working with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office."

"I've already explained. There was no way to report the fire immediately, and so I called
from the beach. I can't believe that's a crime--certainly not one worthy of all this attention."

He looked at her for a long moment. "If the fire was out, there was no urgency. For all you
knew, it had already been reported."

"Thank you for an excellent excuse. I'll use it if I ever talk to Deputy Corlette again." She
tried a smile, which he didn't return.

"Deputy Corlette was under the impression that you called as soon as you reached a
phone."

She started to say she'd never said anything about the timeframe but reconsidered.

"A witness saw you exiting your driveway shortly before seven Saturday morning," he said.
"You reported the fire at one forty-five, almost seven hours later. Driving time would account for no
more than two or three of those hours."

"I was at the cabin for a while, looking around, trying to use the boat's radio. I got lost on
the way back to the highway. I was a filthy mess. When I got to the beach, I took a shower at the
public bathhouse and bought new clothes. Then I called."

His expression said he found her explanation inadequate, but she didn't expand it. She
hadn't mentioned her panic attack before and now it was too late. The truth would sound like a
made-up excuse. Besides, it was none of his business. She wasn't going to tell him about her
personal problems, and he couldn't prove she hadn't been lost for hours. It was a standoff.

"As I mentioned, we're working with Lafourche Parish." His tone stayed casual, but there
was nothing casual about the way he watched her. "Their investigators have determined that the
cabin fire was arson."

"Arson? You mean someone set the cabin on fire? On purpose?" Her voice tailed off as a
flutter of anxiety tightened her throat.