Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim by Patricia Dusenbury Page A
Authors: Patricia Dusenbury
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little
shaky.
When Claire returned home, the light on her message machine was blinking rapidly. Again.
She checked to be sure neither her mother nor Jack had called. They hadn't, but the couple who'd
bought the bungalow had left their prayers that God give her strength to face this latest tragedy.
They were nice people who'd written her a note after they moved in, saying how much they enjoyed
the house, what a nice job she'd done restoring it.
She had talked Tom into buying that bungalow when they moved to New Orleans for his
residency. The evenings and weekends he stayed at the hospital, she had worked on the house. She
pulled up old linoleum and found heart pine floors, removed layers of paint and refinished the old
cypress woodwork. She'd met Jack when she hired his company to help with the heavy lifting.
Selling the house was supposed to finance the move to New York City. Instead, the money
went into her new business.
She poured a glass of wine and carried it out onto the porch. She wasn't supposed to drink
while she was on the meds, but one glass couldn't hurt. Dorian had finished eating and sat on the
top step watching swifts glide and dive, their dark swoops silhouetted against the sky and then
invisible in the shadows. Above the trees, lavender clouds floated in a dark purple sky. The peaceful
setting belied the ugliness of a world where people committed arson and murder.
Captain Robinson hadn't answered any of her questions, not directly, but now she
understood why a homicide detective was investigating Frank's death.
He hadn't died in the fire. Captain Robinson had asked why that mattered, but she couldn't
explain without telling him about the awful day Tom died, and the lost days that followed, the long
walks that, no matter the original destination, always brought her to the burned house. She would
stand on the sidewalk and imagine that things had ended differently and Tom was still with
her.
In a way, he was.
Walking down the street, she would glimpse him from the corner of her eye, but when she
looked again, it would be a tall, dark-haired man she didn't know. An old gray Corolla would drive
around the corner, and she'd peer inside, but the driver's face was never familiar. In a crowded
restaurant, she'd hear Tom's laugh and spin around, heart in her throat, to search a room full of
strangers. Each disappointment brought a fresh sense of loss and heightened anxiety.
Eventually the sightings stopped--she couldn't remember Tom's face unless she looked at
his picture--but her anxiety intensified, and the panic attacks began. The first time, she'd been sure
she was dying.
Death comes once, but panic attacks strike again and again without warning. Recovering
alcoholics aren't the only people who have to live one day at a time.
Reminders of how Tom died triggered her anxiety. She still couldn't see what hidden fear
lurked there. Visiting his grave hadn't provided any clue, but she was determined to figure it out.
She'd been doing better until Frank's death scraped the scabs off, and she wasn't going to give up
now. Of course, how a person died mattered.
I should have asked how Frank died.
Captain Robinson probably thought she was a cold and uncaring person, indifferent to the
death of this man she was supposedly marrying.
No, it was worse than that. Someone had killed Frank and set the cabin on fire to destroy
the evidence. Captain Robinson thought she was that someone. When he asked if she burned the
cabin, he was really asking if she'd killed Frank. That's why he'd wanted to question her again.
As if he sensed her distress, Dorian jumped onto the swing and settled onto her lap. The
purring cat was a comforting presence, warm, soft and non-judgmental. People would react
differently. When those strangers who'd called with condolences learned the cabin fire was arson,
their sympathy would turn to suspicion.
Part of it was her fault. She'd overreacted to everything--the rumors, the burned cabin,
even
shaky.
When Claire returned home, the light on her message machine was blinking rapidly. Again.
She checked to be sure neither her mother nor Jack had called. They hadn't, but the couple who'd
bought the bungalow had left their prayers that God give her strength to face this latest tragedy.
They were nice people who'd written her a note after they moved in, saying how much they enjoyed
the house, what a nice job she'd done restoring it.
She had talked Tom into buying that bungalow when they moved to New Orleans for his
residency. The evenings and weekends he stayed at the hospital, she had worked on the house. She
pulled up old linoleum and found heart pine floors, removed layers of paint and refinished the old
cypress woodwork. She'd met Jack when she hired his company to help with the heavy lifting.
Selling the house was supposed to finance the move to New York City. Instead, the money
went into her new business.
She poured a glass of wine and carried it out onto the porch. She wasn't supposed to drink
while she was on the meds, but one glass couldn't hurt. Dorian had finished eating and sat on the
top step watching swifts glide and dive, their dark swoops silhouetted against the sky and then
invisible in the shadows. Above the trees, lavender clouds floated in a dark purple sky. The peaceful
setting belied the ugliness of a world where people committed arson and murder.
Captain Robinson hadn't answered any of her questions, not directly, but now she
understood why a homicide detective was investigating Frank's death.
He hadn't died in the fire. Captain Robinson had asked why that mattered, but she couldn't
explain without telling him about the awful day Tom died, and the lost days that followed, the long
walks that, no matter the original destination, always brought her to the burned house. She would
stand on the sidewalk and imagine that things had ended differently and Tom was still with
her.
In a way, he was.
Walking down the street, she would glimpse him from the corner of her eye, but when she
looked again, it would be a tall, dark-haired man she didn't know. An old gray Corolla would drive
around the corner, and she'd peer inside, but the driver's face was never familiar. In a crowded
restaurant, she'd hear Tom's laugh and spin around, heart in her throat, to search a room full of
strangers. Each disappointment brought a fresh sense of loss and heightened anxiety.
Eventually the sightings stopped--she couldn't remember Tom's face unless she looked at
his picture--but her anxiety intensified, and the panic attacks began. The first time, she'd been sure
she was dying.
Death comes once, but panic attacks strike again and again without warning. Recovering
alcoholics aren't the only people who have to live one day at a time.
Reminders of how Tom died triggered her anxiety. She still couldn't see what hidden fear
lurked there. Visiting his grave hadn't provided any clue, but she was determined to figure it out.
She'd been doing better until Frank's death scraped the scabs off, and she wasn't going to give up
now. Of course, how a person died mattered.
I should have asked how Frank died.
Captain Robinson probably thought she was a cold and uncaring person, indifferent to the
death of this man she was supposedly marrying.
No, it was worse than that. Someone had killed Frank and set the cabin on fire to destroy
the evidence. Captain Robinson thought she was that someone. When he asked if she burned the
cabin, he was really asking if she'd killed Frank. That's why he'd wanted to question her again.
As if he sensed her distress, Dorian jumped onto the swing and settled onto her lap. The
purring cat was a comforting presence, warm, soft and non-judgmental. People would react
differently. When those strangers who'd called with condolences learned the cabin fire was arson,
their sympathy would turn to suspicion.
Part of it was her fault. She'd overreacted to everything--the rumors, the burned cabin,
even
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