Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (17 page)

"I want to talk to Palmer's travel agent." He picked up the phone.

"It's too late to leave town, podnuh."

Mike motioned Breton to be quiet. He identified himself and asked to speak to whoever had
worked with Frank Palmer.

"That would be me. I made all of Mr. Palmer's personal and business reservations."

"I'm interested in the honeymoon trip."

"Such a tragedy."

Mike listened impatiently while the agent expressed sorrow at Palmer's untimely death,
and then asked when the reservations were made. The answer was their first real break.

"I think it was just last Tuesday," the agent said, "but let me check my records. Yes, here it
is. The very same day we made the reservations for Mr. Hatch's North Carolina vacation."

"Can you give me both itineraries?" He grabbed a pen and a pad, wrote Hatch on the top
sheet and held it up for Breton to see.

"How'd you know?" Breton asked after Mike concluded the call.

"I didn't. I wanted to find out if Palmer made the honeymoon reservations before or after
Claire Marshall left town. The answer is immediately after. Your girlfriend Jeanette made the call,
and then Palmer himself booked a roundtrip to Raleigh-Durham for Ronald Hatch, leaving early
Thursday morning and returning tomorrow evening. Our friendly travel agent never watches the
news or reads the paper--too depressing, he says. He didn't know anyone was looking for
Hatch."

Breton gave him a thumbs-up. "When Vernon hears this, he might forget about your lunch
date."

It wasn't a date, but if he said so again, he'd be protesting too much. "One more call."

The airline said that Hatch had used the first half of the roundtrip ticket. Now, they were
ready to talk to Vernon.

* * * *

Melissa lifted her soda can and put it back down. She repeated the movement until she'd
left a string of wet circles on the glass countertop. It looked like a giant pearl necklace. She went
back and added an overlapping circle between each pearl. Now, it looked like a big chain. A crazy
chain of events--that was the expression Claire had used.

When the cops called, she'd been tempted to say
What key? Who's Claire Marshall?
It
would have been funny but not worth being caught in a lie. The cops would wonder what else she
was lying about--not that she knew enough to lie. Frank told her he was going to pull off the deal of
a lifetime, but he never said what it was. It was going to be a surprise. But something really screwed
up the chain of events.

She wiped the glass clean and stared at her reflection. Blurry as it was, she could see the
vertical lines etched between her brows. Twenty-four years old and she was getting frown lines.
Frank hated it when age showed on her face.

She was thirteen when she caught his eye. She gave him her virginity on her fourteenth
birthday after he gave her a real diamond bracelet like rich women and tennis stars wore. She'd
considered herself a woman of the world, someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it.
Looking back from the perspective of twenty-four, she saw a more complicated reality and a higher
price. When the other girls giggled about boys getting fresh, she'd remained silent, an initiate
isolated by her sophistication. She left no girlfriends behind when she moved from The Home, and
she had none now.

Hatch was her only friend, and where the hell was he? He'd called her hotel Wednesday
night, babbling about Frank's Jeep. She'd been cross-eyed after a long day at the Merchandise Mart,
and she blew him off. She spent the weekend cooped up in her hotel room, waiting for Frank's call
that never came.

Frank was dead. Yesterday afternoon she'd stood in the cemetery and watched them slide
his coffin into the tomb, but it still didn't seem real. The man who loved her was going to spend
eternity lying next to the wife he despised--or whatever was left of her. Annie Lewis had been dead
for five years.
Whatever was left of Frank.
Paul said the coffin had to be closed because his
body was so badly burned.

Her phone rang. Paul Gilbert's lamebrain receptionist reminded her she had a four o'clock
appointment with God's gift to the law.

"Of course, I remember. It's the high point of my day."

She locked the front door and adjusted her Back-in-a-Minute sign to five-thirty. Upstairs
she prepared herself for a meeting with the son of a bitch who'd tried from the beginning to get
Frank to dump her. All those years, she'd been terrified that he'd succeed. Now, he never would, but
she still hated him. Mr. Born on Third Base, who'd be nothing without his family's money, dared
look down on people like her who had to make their own way. His snotty attitude infuriated her,
but she knew how to make him squirm.

When she got to Paul's office, the lamebrain told her to go right in. Mr. Gilbert was waiting.
She sat in front of Paul's desk and leaned forward to let him see she wasn't wearing a bra. He looked
away, pretending not to notice, so she straightened up and uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Her
stockings made a rustling sound as her legs slid against each other. She could hear it and so could
he, but the game wasn't as much fun without Frank there to watch.

She gazed at him through lowered lashes. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"When we spoke the other day I was aware that Frank had made provisions for your future
welfare."

"Frank always took good care of me." She switched legs again, and her skirt slid
higher.

Paul kept his eyes on the papers he was fooling with. "Frank's insurance agent called to ask
if I knew how to contact you. I mentioned this meeting and suggested he join us. I trust that's
acceptable." He looked up and smiled at her.

"What does he want?" Anything that made Paul smile made her nervous.

"Why don't we let him explain." He pushed a button on the intercom. "Suzanne, please send
Mr. Reynolds in as soon as he arrives."

It turned out he was already there. The door opened and a gray-haired man wearing a gray
suit walked in. Even his skin looked gray.

"Melissa dear, this is Don Reynolds, who was Frank's insurance agent. Don, this is Melissa
Yates, who needs no further introduction. Why don't you two sit over on the sofa? You'll be more
comfortable."

"I'll stay right here." She wanted to slap the smile off Paul's face.

The gray man stared as if he'd never seen a woman before and said to call him Don. He
dragged a chair up next to hers, pulled a folder out of his brief case and spoke to her chest.

"Shortly before his death, Frank modified a life insurance policy that I helped him set it up
several years ago--what we call a key man policy. Its purpose was to protect FP Development in the
case of Frank's death. The policy includes a double indemnity clause."

She turned away. Let the creep stare at her back.

"Don't bother with the details, Don," Paul interrupted. "Melissa only cares about what
directly affects her. And Melissa, this does affect you."

The agent cleared his throat like he was going to make an important announcement.
"You're going to be a rich woman, Melissa. Frank altered the terms of this policy to make you the
beneficiary. As a result, you'll receive ten million dollars."

Paul's mouth was moving, but the roaring in her head drowned out his words.
Ten
million dollars.
Frank never mentioned any life insurance. She ought to say something, but her
mind wouldn't string words together. From the corner of her eye, she saw Don Reynolds reach over.
She glared and he stopped, his hand fluttering above her legs. If he touched her, she'd knock his
gray ass into next month.

She tugged her skirt down and tried to think. Had Frank decided to dump her, and this was
the pay-off? Ten million dollars for ten years of her life? No. She only got the money if Frank was
dead. He must have known his life was in danger--something to do with that big deal. This
insurance policy was his way of looking after her in case things went wrong. Like they did. She cut
to the chase.

"When do I get the money?"

Paul nodded toward the insurance agent, who cleared his throat again. "Our usual
procedure is to make the payment as soon as we receive the death certificate, but given the, um,
circumstances we're also requiring an affidavit from the medical examiner. It's just a formality." He
started putting papers back in his briefcase.

"What circumstances?" she said.

"The circumstances surrounding Frank's death," Paul said. "You have talked to the police
haven't you, dear? No offense, but I think they'll be interested in your windfall." He smiled
again.

It took a moment before she understood. "This life insurance is going to make the cops
think I killed Frank. That's what you're implying, isn't it?"

The son of a bitch had set her up, and he thought it was funny. That's why he couldn't stop
smiling. When Paul was involved the lid stayed on, but even he couldn't make murder go away.
Someone had to take the fall, and she'd been elected.

"I hope you don't find it presumptuous, but I've already considered your legal situation."
Paul leaned back in his chair, Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected, now that she was in the hot seat.

"Are you offering to be my lawyer?" Before she finished the question, Paul was shaking his
head, still smiling, the snotty bastard.

"As the attorney for Frank's estate, I have a potential conflict of interest. And I believe your
interests would be better served by an attorney who specializes in criminal defense." He handed
her a business card. "Ben Patterson is apprised of the general situation. Whether or not you talk to
him is, of course, your decision."

She grabbed the card and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Hard.

Paul had struggled to keep a straight face as the comedy unfolded. As usual, Melissa had
dressed like a slut. He pictured her going through her closet, asking herself what Barbie would wear
if Ken died. Don had played his role to perfection. Paul had known he would. When they were in
prep school, Don had drilled a peephole into the girl's locker room. Whenever some pervert was
arrested for looking up women's skirts in Wal-Mart, he thought of Don Reynolds. Watching the man
gawk at Melissa's unfettered bosom had been truly amusing. Her obvious annoyance was
lagniappe.

He opened the antique commode that concealed his liquor cabinet. "I can offer you wine, or
if you prefer, something stronger."

"Bourbon if you have it. No water." Don looked shaken. "Frank was murdered?"

"According to the police. It will be on the news this evening. I took the liberty of telling
them about the insurance policy. You'll probably be hearing from a Captain Mike Robinson. He was
most interested in the change in beneficiaries."

"Do you think Melissa had something to do with Frank's death?" Don gulped a ten-year-old
bourbon that deserved to be sipped.

"I don't know, but if she did, wouldn't it negate her right to the proceeds?" That Reynolds
should consider this before authorizing payment went unsaid, but surely not unheard.

"Should our legal department contact you?"

"Absolutely not. I'm Frank's executor, not Melissa's lawyer."

He would paint his naked body blue and beg for quarters on Bourbon Street before he took
Melissa Yates as a client. Frank had directed him to look out for her interests when he was no
longer in a position to do so. He'd meant after his marriage to Claire, but under the circumstances,
Paul felt obliged to interpret the charge broadly. Ben Patterson was a top-notch criminal
attorney--not quite as good as Felix Moreau, but Claire had asked first.

He took pity on Don Reynolds, who still wore a deer in the headlights look. "Stop by
Suzanne's desk on your way out. She'll give you Melissa's contact information."

Felix Moreau, Claire's new lawyer, picked her up at her office and used the drive time to
review his goals for their upcoming meeting with Captain Robinson and Superintendent Vernon.
Felix had insisted on talking to both of them. If the head of homicide was conducting interviews, the
case was top priority, and any meeting without Vernon would be a waste of time.

Felix's time was too expensive to waste. Yesterday afternoon's introductory session had
cost four hundred dollars. Today would be another four hundred. The thousand-dollar retainer
she'd paid was melting away. She couldn't afford to be a murder suspect for much longer.

"Remember," he said as they entered police headquarters, "do not, I repeat, do not answer
any question until I've said they can ask it. That's why you're paying me."

"That won't make me look guilty?"

"Anything else will make you look foolish." He patted her shoulder. "Relax, you'll be
fine."

When they walked into the conference room, Superintendent Vernon and Felix greeted
each other with handshakes and smiles. They were on a first name basis, and that's how the
meeting was conducted, Henry and Mike talking to Felix and Claire. Apparently Lieutenant Breton
hadn't been invited.

Felix did most of the talking. Speaking only after he nodded his assent, Claire felt like a
child sitting at the grown-up table, but she was paying too much for his advice to disregard it. If
Captain Robinson--she still had difficulty thinking of him as Mike--regretted telling her to hire a
lawyer or was annoyed about her lawyer going over his head, he hid it well.

Under pressure from Felix, Henry Vernon acknowledged that, of course, Claire was free to
travel as she pleased. If the police wanted to interview her again, Mike or someone working for him
would contact Felix to arrange an interview.

The meeting ended with a second round of friendly handshakes. Claire left police
headquarters convinced that Felix was worth every penny. "I'm so glad to have that behind
me."

"I'm not sure it's behind you. All we did was confirm that they don't have enough evidence
to bring charges."