Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim by Patricia Dusenbury
Authors: Patricia Dusenbury
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stared out the window and imagined waves, slow and implacable, washing up onto the
brick wall, white foam on red bricks. She slowed her breath to match their rhythm, inhaling with
one wave and exhaling with the next.
"Are you all right?" His question broke the spell.
She met his gaze. "Frank is dead. The arsonist is a murderer."
He frowned, as if considering this possibility for the first time. "We don't know if that's the
case or not. Mr. Palmer was dead before the fire started."
"Thank God, Frank didn't die in the fire." She hadn't meant to speak aloud, but the words
were out and she couldn't take them back.
"What difference does it make if he died in the fire or before the fire?"
She could only shake her head. He handed her a Kleenex, and she realized that tears were
running down her face.
"Did you set the fire, Ms. Marshall?"
"No."
"Then why are you relieved that the fire didn't kill Frank Palmer?"
"It's a terrible way to die." There would be no more tears. She was past crying. "Do you
have any other questions?"
"Yes, but first would you like a cup of coffee? A glass of water?" He gestured toward the
windowsill.
"No, thank you. But please go ahead."
When he stood and turned his back, her hand slid into her purse, found the vial and
removed a pill. She waited until he was pouring his coffee and swallowed it dry, nothing extra like
this afternoon, just her evening pill a little ahead of schedule.
He sat back down. "Your mother said you cut your visit short because of a problem with
work you were doing for Mr. Palmer."
"That's right."
Claire thought about the excuse she'd given her mother. She wondered if the police were
already looking for the non-existent problem subcontractor and asking the phone company for a list
of numbers called from her mother's house. Frank's death had transformed a little white lie into a
possibly criminal misstatement. She'd already told Captain Robinson about the bad check. In as few
words as possible, she told him about the telephone conversations that made her decide to return
early and confront Frank.
"Why didn't you mention this before?"
"I wasn't sure Frank was the source of the marriage rumors. I'm still not." Her smile was
rueful. "I didn't want to speculate."
She waited for him to ask, who else might it have been, a question she'd been asking
herself. Instead, he asked about her activities Friday afternoon and evening after she returned to
New Orleans. She answered truthfully but couldn't provide any collaborating evidence after she
picked Dorian up at the kennel. She'd treated herself to dinner out because it had been such a lousy
day. She'd been too immersed in her own thoughts to notice anyone, but she thought more than one
person had waited on her. The restaurant didn't take credit cards. She'd paid in cash and not kept
the bill. She'd gone to a movie but remembered little more than the plot and the names of the
stars.
"You're just going to have to believe me. Why would I lie?"
"Thank you for coming in. If you think of anything else, please call me." He stood and
handed her his business card.
Her fingertips slid across the raised lettering, hard and slippery on the soft paper, and a
torrent of memory washed the present away. She was back in the bungalow where she and Tom
had lived. The policeman who'd brought the terrible news was talking. She wanted him to leave, but
he kept talking.
"We need you to come downtown and identify your husband's body," he'd said. "We know
this is difficult, but it has to be done. Your husband was a hero, Mrs. Marshall. He saved the lives of
two little children.
"Call when you're ready, and I'll meet you at the morgue." He handed her a business
card.
She had reached out to take it, and her fingertips slid across the raised lettering...
"Ms. Marshall, are you all right?" Captain Robinson was beside her, a supporting hand on
her elbow.
"I'm fine, thank you, just tired." She walked out of his office on legs that were only a
brick wall, white foam on red bricks. She slowed her breath to match their rhythm, inhaling with
one wave and exhaling with the next.
"Are you all right?" His question broke the spell.
She met his gaze. "Frank is dead. The arsonist is a murderer."
He frowned, as if considering this possibility for the first time. "We don't know if that's the
case or not. Mr. Palmer was dead before the fire started."
"Thank God, Frank didn't die in the fire." She hadn't meant to speak aloud, but the words
were out and she couldn't take them back.
"What difference does it make if he died in the fire or before the fire?"
She could only shake her head. He handed her a Kleenex, and she realized that tears were
running down her face.
"Did you set the fire, Ms. Marshall?"
"No."
"Then why are you relieved that the fire didn't kill Frank Palmer?"
"It's a terrible way to die." There would be no more tears. She was past crying. "Do you
have any other questions?"
"Yes, but first would you like a cup of coffee? A glass of water?" He gestured toward the
windowsill.
"No, thank you. But please go ahead."
When he stood and turned his back, her hand slid into her purse, found the vial and
removed a pill. She waited until he was pouring his coffee and swallowed it dry, nothing extra like
this afternoon, just her evening pill a little ahead of schedule.
He sat back down. "Your mother said you cut your visit short because of a problem with
work you were doing for Mr. Palmer."
"That's right."
Claire thought about the excuse she'd given her mother. She wondered if the police were
already looking for the non-existent problem subcontractor and asking the phone company for a list
of numbers called from her mother's house. Frank's death had transformed a little white lie into a
possibly criminal misstatement. She'd already told Captain Robinson about the bad check. In as few
words as possible, she told him about the telephone conversations that made her decide to return
early and confront Frank.
"Why didn't you mention this before?"
"I wasn't sure Frank was the source of the marriage rumors. I'm still not." Her smile was
rueful. "I didn't want to speculate."
She waited for him to ask, who else might it have been, a question she'd been asking
herself. Instead, he asked about her activities Friday afternoon and evening after she returned to
New Orleans. She answered truthfully but couldn't provide any collaborating evidence after she
picked Dorian up at the kennel. She'd treated herself to dinner out because it had been such a lousy
day. She'd been too immersed in her own thoughts to notice anyone, but she thought more than one
person had waited on her. The restaurant didn't take credit cards. She'd paid in cash and not kept
the bill. She'd gone to a movie but remembered little more than the plot and the names of the
stars.
"You're just going to have to believe me. Why would I lie?"
"Thank you for coming in. If you think of anything else, please call me." He stood and
handed her his business card.
Her fingertips slid across the raised lettering, hard and slippery on the soft paper, and a
torrent of memory washed the present away. She was back in the bungalow where she and Tom
had lived. The policeman who'd brought the terrible news was talking. She wanted him to leave, but
he kept talking.
"We need you to come downtown and identify your husband's body," he'd said. "We know
this is difficult, but it has to be done. Your husband was a hero, Mrs. Marshall. He saved the lives of
two little children.
"Call when you're ready, and I'll meet you at the morgue." He handed her a business
card.
She had reached out to take it, and her fingertips slid across the raised lettering...
"Ms. Marshall, are you all right?" Captain Robinson was beside her, a supporting hand on
her elbow.
"I'm fine, thank you, just tired." She walked out of his office on legs that were only a
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