Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (3 page)

"Schedule an appointment?" Jeanette echoed. "Don't be silly, Claire. If he's back in time,
he'll want to meet your plane. After all." She giggled.

"Delta 1320, due in at twelve forty-seven." Claire wasn't going to waste any more energy
arguing with Jeanette, and it was fine with her if Frank came to the airport. The sooner she talked to
him, the better. "If he's not there, I'll call you." She hung up and went downstairs to find her mother,
who was not going to be happy about the change in plans.

"But you just got here."

"I don't want to go, but I have to." She gave her mother a one-armed hug. "It's been a
wonderful visit, and it's not over yet. We have your birthday party tonight."

"Can't Jack handle a problem with a subcontractor?"

"Jack is a wonderful person and an incredible craftsman, but he's a lousy businessman."
She'd explained it all before. Jack had started his construction company without enough capital and
compounded the problem by trying to please everyone, pricing projects too low and paying
subcontractors too much. He'd quickly found himself in financial hot water. She'd brought in
enough money to stave off bankruptcy and the business skills to get the company on track. "That's
why we're partners, and the business end is my job."

"Can't you take care of it over the phone?"

Claire shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mom. Some things have to be worked out face to face,
and I have to do it. That's a problem with a small company. No back-up." She hated lying to her
mother, and she'd done it twice today, but the truth was too weird--and too disturbing.

She had to straighten things out with Frank before he went to his banquet tomorrow night
and told more people. Tom had been dead only fifteen months, and some days the loss felt as fresh
as yesterday. She wasn't interested in any other man--not yet and maybe never, but certainly never
Frank Palmer.

How dare you, Frank?

Attorney-at-law Paul Gilbert pulled under the porte cochere of The Pontchartrain Hotel
and took a moment to admire the familiar facade. One of the big new downtown hotels had offered
free meeting space, but after he and several other long-time members objected to any move, the
offer was politely refused. The Crescent City Club had always held its awards ceremony at The
Pontchartrain and would continue to do so.

Paul valued tradition. His family had been prominent in New Orleans since before the
Louisiana Purchase. Local historians said his ancestors had opposed it. Paul had no idea if that was
true or not, but the story amused him, and he enjoyed his position among the elite. He also prided
himself on good manners, which included promptness. He tipped the valet and hurried into the
hotel, at home in his formal attire and confident of his welcome.

Andrew Walsh intercepted him in the lobby. "Have you seen Frank Palmer?"

"Hello, Andrew. Good to see you. Will you be introducing Frank tonight?" Although not a
member of the Club, Andrew's position as director of The Children's Home made him the logical
choice.

"Yes and he was supposed to meet me here at six thirty. I've been here since six." Andrew
wiped his brow, leaving a damp streak on the sleeve of his dinner jacket.

"Perhaps Frank used a different entrance. Let's look in the ballroom."

Paul had little use for Andrew, whose usual attitude toward those above him on the social
ladder was a smarmy combination of obsequious and self-righteous. Tonight, however, tension
made him abrupt, and his apparent stage fright was almost touching.

They joined half a dozen men occupying a strategic spot between the main bar and a buffet
table laden with silver platters of oysters, shrimp, and crawfish. These were Frank's friends, but
questions about his whereabouts elicited only shrugs and surmises that he was in some corner,
working on his latest deal. Still sweating, Andrew charged off to look elsewhere.

Paul wished him luck. Spotting one man among two hundred middle-aged men wearing
essentially the same suit wouldn't be easy. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter and
joined a conversation that ranged from the weather--heavy thunderstorms were predicted--to
politics to sports.

Tulane and LSU graduates traded amiable insults about whose football team was worse.
Neither was having a good year. Paul, who'd left Louisiana for college, listened with only half an ear
as he scanned the room for Frank. He was looking forward to the reactions when Frank announced
his impending marriage to Claire Marshall. He was also hoping someone else would suggest caution.
Frank had pooh-poohed all his warnings about young women and wealthy older men, insisting that
Claire was different. Paul had heard that before, usually from an older man about to become poorer
but wiser.

A chime signaled dinner, and the group migrated to a table near the front. Paul forgot about
Frank until the awards ceremony began. After presentation of the lesser awards, Andrew Walsh
was introduced. He carried an ominously thick stack of note cards up to the podium. Frank's work
with The Children's Home went back at least a decade, and it looked as if Andrew planned to
describe every moment.

Paul ordered two snifters of Armagnac from a passing waiter. When the brandy arrived, he
slid one over to Bobby, who was also eyeing that stack of notes. Bobby had managed the LSU
football team that Frank captained, he'd been best man when Frank married Annie Lewis, his bank
had supported Frank through the early lean years and, no doubt, still carried a fat portfolio of loans
to FP Development Company. Andrew could say nothing that Bobby hadn't heard many times
before. Their glasses were empty by the time Andrew turned over his last note card.

"I'd like to present your Citizen of the Year," he said. "Franklin W. Palmer II, chairman of
The Children's Home Board of Directors."

The applause began with great enthusiasm but died when Frank didn't appear. Heads
swiveled as people searched the room, but the banquet was open seating, and no telltale chair sat
empty at a designated place.

"My friend, Frank Palmer." Andrew's voice quavered.

After another long silence, Bobby stood. "I'd like to accept the award on Frank's behalf." A
clap of thunder followed by the
rat-tat-tat
of heavy rain added to the strangeness of the
moment. The expected storms had arrived.

Paul marveled at the persistence of character. If half the stories he'd heard were true,
Bobby had been covering for Frank since they were undergraduates.

The awards ceremony ended with Bobby's brief acceptance speech, but people remained
seated, speculating about possible reasons for Frank's astonishing absence. Andrew darted from
table to table, asking everyone when they'd last seen Frank and generally making a nuisance of
himself. Bobby returned to the microphone and advised everyone to go home. The hour was getting
late. With this heavy rain and more coming, driving conditions would only worsen. He pointed
toward the waiters, standing by the kitchen door. "These hardworking men can't clear the room
until we leave."

Paul asked one of the hotel staff to let him use an empty office and began making phone
calls.

Several minutes later, Bobby joined him. "Have you learned anything?"

"Nothing useful. Jeanette hasn't seen Frank since Tuesday. He left the office early, she
thinks, to go fishing with Hatch. She had more to say, as you can imagine, but the bottom line is she
doesn't know where he is. The police are checking his house, discreetly, of course. I've been unable
to reach Melissa."

"Melissa?" Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Hasn't he told you about Claire Marshall?"

Paul nodded. Frank had told him, and Jeanette certainly knew. She'd gone on and on about
Claire's devotion, how she had cut short her vacation because she couldn't stand being apart from
Frank, how she'd called the office several times today, increasingly frantic about not being able to
reach him.

"Frank wants to shout it from the rooftops," Bobby said, "but Claire doesn't want any big
announcement. You know she was widowed just last year. He told me a few days ago, and I couldn't
resist wishing her well when she called the bank."

"About Frank?" Paul said.
Had she actually tried to investigate his financial
situation?

"No, no, no." Bobby answered the unspoken question. "Nothing like that. Her company's
doing some work for him, and they had a problem with one of his checks. I was happy to help. Have
you met her?"

"Only briefly," Paul said. "But I'm aware of their plans to marry, and you're right. We
should call. Do you have her number?"

"No, and when we spoke, she was in Michigan."

"Jeanette said she returned today."

"Really? I had the impression she was staying through the weekend." Bobby picked up the
phone book. "I like Claire, and she strikes me as a woman who'd have a listed number. Aha, here she
is." He dialed but hung up without speaking. "Her machine picked up, and I couldn't think of a
tactful message."

The police called back to report that no one was home at the Palmer residence. A note on
the front door, dated Friday 3:30 pm, asked Frank to contact Claire. Paul relayed that information
along with a summary of Jeanette's romantic blather.

"She thinks he's with Claire. If I hadn't cut her short, she'd still be mooing about glorious
romance. I don't understand how Frank puts up with that woman, much less why he employs her."
Actually, he did. Frank valued loyalty above all other virtues, and Jeanette personified it. If Frank
asked her to jump off a bridge, she'd ask which one.

"This time, she might have a point," Bobby said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Claire planned to spend the weekend in Michigan, but she didn't. Frank planned to be
here, but he isn't. It's almost midnight, and we can't locate either of them. I'll bet they're together."
Bobby smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised if they've eloped."

Paul walked over to the window and watched the rain pelting down while he considered
Bobby's words. He would never describe Frank as a romantic, nor could he imagine him skipping
this award, which was a triumph for an ambitious man from humble beginnings. Frank Palmer
cared deeply about his reputation, almost to the point of obsession, and he'd worked hard to attain
both social and financial success. Being named Citizen of the Year validated that success. He shook
his head.

"I don't see it."

"You know Frank. Once he's made up his mind to do something, he does it, and Claire
doesn't want a lot of fuss."

"Perhaps you're right." He hoped not. Frank's will had been changed, but the prenuptial
agreement hadn't been finalized. Frank would be a fool to marry this impecunious young widow
without it. Nor was Paul reassured by Bobby's good opinion of Claire. Yes, she seemed like a
pleasant person, but neither one of them knew much about her, and Bobby trusted too readily. He
was president of the bank only because he inherited the position. He was far too easy-going to have
scratched his way to the top.

"Don't look so gloomy," Bobby said. "The more I think about it, the more I think they're
together."

"We've done what we can." Paul shrugged. "I'm ready to go home. I'll call if I hear anything.
You do the same."

Paul was halfway home when he saw the implication of calling Melissa first, even though he
knew Frank intended to marry Claire. He chuckled and admitted he might just be the most cynical
man in New Orleans.

Dawn had given way to morning, but the Garden District remained so still and silent it
could have been preserved in amber. Claire turned the key in the ignition and, when her engine
caught, felt as if she should apologize for the disturbance. The gravel driveway crunched under her
tires, compounding the offense. Across the street a man walking a small white dog looked up as if
surprised to see another human being. New Orleans is not an early-to-rise city, least of all on
Saturday.

The bright blue Miata was Claire's only extravagance. She'd named the car Felicia because
sitting behind the wheel of the spiffy little roadster made her happy. Once she'd taken care of the
difficult business with Frank, this would be a nice day for a trip to the beach. If Frank weren't at his
cabin, it would still be a nice day for the beach.

She drove slowly, admiring the lovely old houses. Midday's harsh sun might reveal peeling
paint, crumbling fascia and rotted soffit, but the early morning rays landed gently and blurred
flaws. She slowed by one of her favorites, an Italianate mansion that was far from the biggest house
in the Garden District, but one of the most graceful, and imagined a family safely asleep inside,
sheltered behind tall windows made golden by the sun.

Even St. Charles Avenue was tranquil. No cluster of tourists waited in the median for a
streetcar. No herd of vehicles charged from stoplight to stoplight. A left under the overpass took
Claire onto the ramp that led to the elevated highway, and soon she'd left the city behind. The road
narrowed to four lanes, a cement ribbon cutting through swamp forests interspersed with open
water. Despite rumble strips on the shoulders, the heavy guardrails bore multiple scars from
encounters with vehicles steered by the overtired, the reckless, and the inebriated.

She drove on automatic pilot, distracted by the challenge of refusing a proposal that had
never been made. With every mile traveled, the situation felt more ridiculous. Why tell Frank she
wouldn't marry him when he'd never mentioned the possibility? Not to her, but he'd told his
secretary and he'd told his best friend. Or had he?

What if he was involved with someone else named Claire and everyone just assumed she
was that someone? But what explained a diamond watch worth thousands of dollars? The watch
was far too expensive a gift to accept from a client, no matter how wealthy or how apologetic, and
Frank would know that. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.