Epilogue
O n days like Thanksgiving, Charlotte wished for a bigger house. This particular year she was hosting the celebration for family and friends, and her small half of the double was bursting with people. She and Madeline had been cooking and baking for days, and food covered every inch of available counter space in the kitchen along with several card tables that had been temporarily set up for the occasion. She could barely move without bumping into someone, since everyone seemed bent on congregating in the kitchen. But then, that was what Thanksgiving was for, wasn’t it?
As Charlotte looked around, trying to count heads, she sighed. Why had she invited everyone and his brother this year? Because you’re a sucker for happy endings. Not only was her family there, but Louis’ son and family were joining them too.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and as if just thinking about him had conjured him up, Charlotte glanced back to see Louis right behind her.
“You feeling okay today?” he asked.
Counting to ten, Charlotte prayed for patience before she answered. Ever since Louis had heard the results of the glucose tolerance test she’d taken, he’d turned into a regular worrywart and a nag…along with her son and the rest of her family.
“I’m feeling just fine,” she finally said. “Remember? I’m just a borderline diabetic. And as long as I watch what I eat and take that little pill every day, I should continue to be just fine.” She forced a polite smile. “But thank you for your concern.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you. I really do appreciate you inviting my son and his family over today, so just in case I haven’t done so already, thanks.”
Charlotte shook her head. “You did thank me, Louis, about ten times and counting.”
Louis grinned. “Well, let’s make it eleven, then. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”
“That’s twelve,” she retorted.
“Can’t be too many. I would have never got up the courage to make contact with him if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Aunt Charley?”
At the sound of her niece’s voice, Charlotte turned toward the doorway.
Louis waved his hand. “She’s over here, Judith,” he called out. When Judith came closer, he teasingly told Charlotte, “Between you and me, I think things are getting serious with her and Billy. He—”
Judith playfully hit him on the arm with her fist. “Talking about me behind my back again, Lou?”
“Oops! Caught red-handed,” he replied with a wink at Charlotte. To Judith he said, “I think that’s my cue to mosey out into the backyard and rescue your brother. Last time I checked, my granddaughter and that little kid, Davy, were trying to see which one could wear out Daniel first with the airplane rides.”
Leaving Charlotte and Judith laughing, Louis slipped out the back door. Charlotte turned to Judith. “Was there something you needed, hon?”
“No—not really, but I did want to tell you the latest on Sam—I mean Arthur Samuel.”
“Latest?”
Judith nodded. “Why don’t we go into the hall or the bedroom? I’d just as soon not broadcast it to everyone.” With a jerk of her head, she indicated the people surrounding them.
“You lead the way and I’ll follow,” Charlotte told her.
Once they had maneuvered their way through the crowded kitchen and closed the door to the bedroom, both women sighed dramatically, then laughed.
“I can’t believe how many people we have this year,” Judith commented. “And all that food is unreal.”
“The more the merrier?” Charlotte quipped, tongue in cheek.
“Humph! If you say so, Auntie. And don’t look at me like that. Contrary to what you think, I am not antisocial. I just like my own space.” She waved a dismissing hand. “What I wanted to tell you though was that it looks like Sam—Arthur—will never make it to trial.”
Charlotte was so stunned, it took a moment for her to digest Judith’s words. “Why on earth not?” she finally asked.
“He’s got cancer of the liver and the prognosis isn’t good at all. According to the doctor who was called in, even if he should make it to trial, he’ll never live long enough to see the inside of a prison.”
For a moment, Charlotte was thoughtfully silent. “Justice,” she finally whispered.
“What was that, Auntie?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I was just thinking out loud how ironic it is that Sam—Arthur, that is—was the one who was seeking justice and now it’s come full circle. And speaking of justice, what’s happened to Darla Shaw?”
Judith sighed. “Well, she’s in a lot of trouble—blackmail, attempted armed robbery—take your pick. But since she doesn’t have any priors, and with a decent attorney, who knows?”
“And B.J.?”
“What about B.J.?” Judith smiled slyly and winked at her aunt.
“Nothing,” Charlotte answered with an understanding grin. “Why, nothing at all. But enough of all of that. For today I don’t want to think about Sam or Darla or Drew Bergeron or the Heberts. For today, I just want to enjoy my friends and family.” She hesitated for a moment. Then, with a teasing grin, she asked, “So how’s that nice Billy Wilson these days?”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “You can ask him yourself in a little while, since I took the liberty of inviting him over for dinner. Although now,” she quickly added, “I’m having second thoughts. Billy grew up an only child from a very small family. Poor man won’t know what to think about this bunch.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Er—ah, rumor has it that things are, shall we say, getting serious between you two.”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, don’t believe everything you hear, Auntie, especially if it comes from Lou.”
It was about an hour later when Charlotte asked Hank to gather everyone in the kitchen.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” he called out. “Attention, please!” When, after a few moments, the talking and laughter died down, he said, “My mother wants to thank you all for coming and sharing in this day of Thanksgiving with her. We’ll have the blessing, then everyone can dig in.”
As prearranged, Hank said the blessing, and while Charlotte listened to her son’s deep, soothing voice give thanks for their family, their friends, and being able to live in a free country, in spite of her resolve concerning Arthur Samuel, her thoughts drifted back to what Louis had once said about him and to what Judith had just told her.
Arthur Samuel had once had everything important in life: a family, a career, his health, and respectability. Now he had nothing. Such a needless tragedy, she thought sadly. And all because somewhere, somehow, he’d lost his way. In the beginning, he’d been a victim, but in the end, seeking revenge had cost him everything. Now he would die all alone in prison, without the benefits of the love of friends or family or respectability.
Sudden shame washed through Charlotte. Considering Arthur Samuel’s fate, her own problems seemed petty by comparison, and turning sixty was just a small grain of sand on the seashore of life.
Charlotte cringed just thinking about how selfish she’d been over the past month, moaning and groaning and sitting on her pity pot about something so insignificant as another birthday, when she should have been down on her knees, giving thanks. Yes, she had a health problem, but at least she could continue to live a normal life. But even more, she had a wonderful family who loved and supported her, and friends who respected her.
“…and thank you, Lord, for this food we’re about to receive, and we ask your blessings upon it. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
Adding her own personal prayer for forgiveness and thanks, Charlotte whispered an affirming “Amen.”
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A Cleaning Tip from Charlotte
To prevent grimy buildup and to clean stained grout in a ceramic tile floor, add a small amount of chlorine bleach to warm soapy water each time you mop. Be sure and rinse well afterwards. A word of caution: never mix bleach with products that contain ammonia.
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On Friday morning, Charlotte couldn’t believe how much better she felt as she locked her front door and headed for the van. Climbing inside the van, she found herself humming the old song, “What a Difference a Day Makes.”
And it was true, she thought. Just as the song title implied, one day could make all the difference in the world. And so could something as simple as an apology.
While she was waiting for several cars to pass before backing into the street, her thoughts turned introspective. Though Charlotte truly didn’t believe that one person’s happiness and well-being should depend on another person, she was a realist. Being at odds with her only sister had been a miserable experience and had really had an effect on her. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, she was sure. And in theory, yes, happiness had to come from within, but theory didn’t always take into account that people were only human, and humans needed to live in harmony with those they loved.
The street was clear of traffic, and as Charlotte backed onto Milan, her gaze strayed to the driveway on the other side of her house and her thoughts turned to Louis Thibodeaux. Louis’s blue Taurus was gone, she noted. So where was he at this time in the morning? she wondered as she drove past her house. She didn’t remember hearing him leave earlier, but he could have left while she was in the shower.
None of your business. “And what do you care, anyway?” she muttered as she ignored the tiny voice in her head that answered back, insisting that she did care, probably more than she should.
The drive to her Friday client’s home usually took about ten minutes, depending on traffic. Though there was a steady flow of traffic today, it moved along without any delays for a change.
Almost a year had passed since Charlotte had begun working for Marian Hebert on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. In that year she’d seen Marian undergo some dramatic changes.
A widow in her late thirties, Marian was well on her way to overcoming an alcohol addiction and getting a firm hold on raising her two sons. But the journey to sobriety hadn’t been an easy one. It had taken a murder and a life-threatening experience to jolt Marian out of the quagmire of self-pity and guilt that she’d buried herself in.
Charlotte shivered, recalling the particular incident all too well. In retrospect the whole thing seemed like a bad dream, but unlike a nightmare, the memory of which usually faded with time, even now, five months later, Charlotte could still recall each terrifying minute. She and Marian had both done well to escape with their very lives, and Charlotte wasn’t sure she would ever forget the horror of it all.
As Charlotte parked the van alongside the curb in the front of Marian’s home, she couldn’t help noticing the difference between Marian’s home and Patsy’s home. Both were architecturally the same raised-cottage type, but that was where all similarities ended.
Though Marian’s house was old, too, it wasn’t nearly as old as Patsy’s, and whereas Patsy was a stickler for historical accuracy, with only a few concessions for modern conveniences, Marian had no such compunctions. Patsy’s home was a historical showplace. Marian’s home was…well…it was a home.
Before his death, Marian and her husband had remodeled their home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.
Sons. Children. Maybe that was the real difference. Patsy had no children, no one to think of but herself and her little dog, Missy.
From the back of her van, Charlotte gathered the supplies she would need and filled her supply carrier. She was thinking that she’d make a second trip for her vacuum cleaner when it suddenly dawned on her that her vacuum cleaner wasn’t in the van. So where on earth was it?
When she suddenly remembered, she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Just great!” she muttered. “Just wonderful!” Of Course. It was right where she’d left it. It was still at Patsy Dufour’s house.
Charlotte preferred to use her own equipment when cleaning. There had been too many times she’d had the experience of pulling out a client’s vacuum only to find that it was either broken or there were no vacuum bags to replace the full one inside the machine.
“Thanks for nothing, Maddie,” she grumbled as she added a bottle of window cleaner to the supply carrier. “That’s what I get for letting my temper get the best of me and not thinking straight.”
All she could do for now was hope that Marian’s vacuum was in working order, she finally decided. Charlotte pulled out the notepad and pen she always kept in her apron pocket and jotted down a reminder note. Call Patsy Dufour about vacuum cleaner and arrange a time to pick it up. Slipping the notepad and pen back inside her pocket, she grabbed the supply carrier, slammed the van door shut and locked it.
Once through the front gate, she climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open. Like a whirlwind, Aaron Hebert rushed past her.
“Hi, Ms. LaRue. I’m late. Gotta go. Bye, Ms. LaRue.”
“Hi and bye, Aaron,” she called after him. “Have a good day.” Charlotte smiled as she watched the eight-year-old boy lope down the sidewalk. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Aaron reminded her a lot of her nephew, Daniel, when he had been Aaron’s age. Though not as mischievous as mischievous as Daniel had been, Aaron was just as full of life, and loved to talk about anything and everything.
“Aaron Hebert, you come back and shut that door! Oops!” Marian Hebert’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Hi, Charlotte. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
Charlotte laughed. “No problem.”
It was around two that afternoon when Charlotte stopped off at Patsy Dufour’s to pick up her vacuum. When Patsy didn’t answer the doorbell, Charlotte figured she would find her in the backyard.
Just as she rounded the back corner of the house, she came to an abrupt halt. Once again, the old song she’d hummed earlier came to mind. The large, ugly hole in Patsy’s backyard had been transformed overnight into a lovely pond, complete with a fountain in the middle. The mounds of dirt on either side of the hole had been leveled and carpeted with squares of lush green grass. Tropical plants and shrubbery had been added around the edges of the pond, and, almost like magic, the whole area had been turned into a serene, lush garden.
“Hey, watch it! Be careful with that.” Patsy’s loud command jerked Charlotte’s attention toward the patio.
“That” turned out to be a huge statue. So why did it look familiar? Charlotte wondered as she narrowed her eyes in concentration. She’d seen that statue before…somewhere. But where?
“Of course,” she murmured. If memory served her right, it was a copy of a famous Henry Moore sculpture, one called Madonna and Child. And a smaller, poor copy at that, she thought as she watched the two burly workers struggle to move it to the opposite side of the pond. As the workers positioned the statue near the edge of the pond, the sight of it opened a floodgate of memories for Charlotte, memories mostly of her father.
Though her father had made his living as a mechanic, he’d been a gentle man, an artist at heart. He’d loved all art forms, but his favorite had been sculptures. And he’d passed on that love to his oldest daughter.
Above all, Charlotte’s parents had wanted her to get a college education. And she’d wanted that, too…until she’d met her son’s father. Even after Hank Senior had been killed in Vietnam and Hank Junior had been born, her folks had still insisted that she continue her college education. It had been during her second semester that her father had urged her to take an art course, one that concentrated on modern sculptors, and she’d chosen Henry Moore and his works for her term paper.
A signal from Patsy caught Charlotte’s eye, and Charlotte shook her head to dispel the painful memories. Patsy waved and held up her forefinger, indicating she’d be done in a minute. It was then that Charlotte realized that the statue was in place and that the men were in the process of moving a huge urn from beneath the portico.
The urn was almost as tall as the men moving it. The foot and lip of the vessel appeared to be about the same size, probably about two to three feet in diameter. But the girth of the urn had to be a good four or five feet in circumference. Unlike the many ornate ones she’d seen that decorated the famous above-ground cemeteries in and about New Orleans, the design of Patsy’s urn was smooth and simplistic to the extreme. And though its simplicity was its beauty, it was also a major problem for the workers.
Getting a good hold on it was almost impossible. Both men were drenched in sweat from their efforts, and by the sounds of the grunts coming from them, Charlotte decided that the thing had to weight an enormous amount.
The workers almost had it out from beneath the overhang of the porch. But the going was slow, and Charlotte began to wonder if they would be able to make it all the way to the pond.
“A whole person could fit inside that thing,” she murmured, watching the men struggle.
“Be careful with that,” Patsy demanded. “It’s old and—”
The words had no sooner left Patsy’s mouth when one of the men lost his grip and dropped his side. The movement caused the other worker’s hold to slip, and the urn hit the flagstone patio with a resounding thud.
Patsy shrieked in horror. “Now look!” she cried. “Just look what you’ve done to my beautiful urn. You’ve cracked it.”
Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, Charlotte stepped closer. Sure enough, there was definitely a large half-moon-shaped crack on one side just above the foot of the base.
For long minutes, Patsy, the two workers, and Charlotte simply stared at the crack. Finally the larger of the two men spoke up. “It can be fixed, ma’am,” he said nervously. “I—I know a man down in da Quarter who does dat kind of ting. He can fix it so you never know it wuz ever cracked.”
Patsy shifted her gaze to glare at the worker. After several moments, she finally emitted a large sigh and nodded. “Yes—yes, of course it can,” she retorted, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “But until then—” She motioned toward the porch with a jerky movement of her arm. “Let’s move it back for the time being. But pu-lease—move it ve-ry carefully,” she added, dragging out her words as if instructing a couple of two-year-olds instead of grown men.
Both workers looked so relieved it was comical. The larger of the two nodded at the smaller one. “On three,” he said gruffly. Both men squared their feet on either side of the urn and each grabbed hold. “One…two…three—”
The moment the men picked up the urn and moved it, the cracked portion broke loose.
“Wait!” Patsy shouted. “Stop!”
But the men had already shuffled a couple of steps sideways and the damage was done.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Patsy cried, staring at the bottom portion that had fallen free. “Now look what you’ve done!”
But Charlotte went stone still. “Oh, no,” she murmured, her eyes on the gaping hole in the bottom of the urn. The urn hadn’t been empty, and almost immediately she recognized what had fallen out of the hole.
Bones.
Large bones that looked suspiciously like a hand and fingers. Charlotte shivered. But were they really human bones?
A deep dread spread within her. No matter how much she would have preferred them to be the bones of some poor animal who had crawled in the urn and died, she had a horrible feeling that they were exactly what they appeared to be.
“Charlotte? What’s wrong?” Patsy glanced over at Charlotte.
At the moment Charlotte couldn’t utter a sound, nor could she take her eyes off the bones. All she could do was point at the bones.
With a puzzled frown, Patsy followed Charlotte’s gaze back to the hole, then stepped closer to the urn. As she bent to inspect the hole more closely, her eyes widened in horror. With an earsplitting scream, she threw up her hands to either side of her head and quickly backed away.
четверг, 20 января 2011 г.
Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 02 - Death Tidies Up p.06
Chapter Twenty-four
“M y name is Darla Shaw,” the woman snarled.
Darla Shaw. A memory clicked in Charlotte’s mind. Darla Shaw was the woman Drew Bergeron had been living with in Key West, but worse, Darla Shaw was also Judith’s number-one suspect.
“I think we have some unfinished business,” the woman spat. Using the pressure of the gun, she forced Charlotte backward, into the foyer. Once they were both inside, she used the heel of her muddy shoe and kicked the door shut.
The sound of the door slamming was like the crack of a whip, and Charlotte jumped. Think, Charlotte! Think! But Charlotte’s heart was hammering against her rib cage so hard that she could hardly catch her breath, never mind think.
The woman’s dark eyes flashed contempt as her gaze slid over Charlotte from head to toe. “You’re a lot older than I thought you’d be,” she sneered.
Older?
“What gets me, though, is why he’d want some old broad like you when he had me?” Punctuating each word with a jab of the gun, she added, “Of course, all he wanted from you was money.”
Marian! She thinks I’m Marian. Charlotte opened her mouth in denial, but nothing came out but a squeak.
“All I’ve heard for weeks was Marian this and Marian that,” the woman ranted, confirming Charlotte’s suspicions. “Oh, yeah—” the woman gave an exaggerated nod. “I know all about you and what you did. And I know all about your little arrangement with Drew.” She shook her head, then moaned, “I told him not to come—the idiot! I begged him.” Then she shouted, “But would he listen? Oh, no—not him, not Mr. High and Mighty Know-it-all. Not Mr. Stud,” she spat.
The woman’s lower lip curled into a snarl. “And I was right, wasn’t I? He shouldn’t ’ave come ’cause you killed him—killed him deader than a doorknob.” Spittle flew out of her mouth. She licked her lips, then narrowed her eyes. “But I got news for you, sister. You’re gonna pay and pay big. Only this time—” She thumped herself on the chest. “This time you’re gonna pay me.”
The woman was convinced that she was Marian, and though Charlotte wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her she had the wrong person, every instinct she had warned against it.
Charlotte swallowed hard, and praying that Marian had overheard the woman ranting and raving and wasn’t too far gone to have sense enough to call the police, she decided that the only way to stay alive was to play along…or play dumb.
Gathering every ounce of courage she had within her, she decided to play dumb. She slowly shook her head. “There’s been a mistake of some kind. I don’t know any Drew, and I don’t know what or who you’re talking—”
“Liar!” the woman screamed. “You’re a damned liar. This is the right address, and you’re Marian Hebert! I know ’cause Drew told me all about your fancy house in the uppity Garden District. And I know all about you and what y’all did—you and Drew and that husband of yours—how you all got drunk as skunks that night and stole that professor’s car, and how you were the one driving.”
He’s found out…somehow he’s found out.
If Charlotte hadn’t already been scared speechless, she would have been shocked speechless as well, and if she’d had any doubts about Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel being the same man, those doubts had been put to rest, once and for all.
Even as Darla continued ranting, everything she’d said began to make a weird kind of sense. They were all connected: Drew, Bill, Marian, and Sam aka Professor Arthur Samuel. And if what Darla was saying was true, then it was no wonder that Marian suffered from emotional problems, along with alcohol abuse, and it was no wonder that Sam had changed his name and attempted to change his looks. Sam didn’t want to be recognized.
If Marian, Drew, and Bill had stolen the professor’s car that night, then they had let an innocent man pay for their crime. Even worse, though, somehow, some way, Sam had figured out that the three had stolen his car and that one of them had been responsible for the murder he’d been accused of.
A cold chill ran through Charlotte. Two of the three, Bill and Drew, were dead.
Sam had worked for Bill, and Bill had been killed in a suspicious explosion.
Then there was Drew. Charlotte had no doubt that Sam had also killed Drew as well…the cigar butt outside the closet, just like the one at Sam’s house, and just like the one she’d seen outside the closet at the Devilier house…the purple Mardi Gras mask on Drew’s face. Purple, green, and gold, all traditional Mardi Gras colors: purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power. Sam Roberts aka Professor Arthur Samuel was out for justice, and in his own macabre way, he was letting the world know that he was finally getting it.
But how? How had Sam even known that Drew was still alive to begin with? He must have, though, and now, out of the three, only Marian was left.
Darla suddenly poked Charlotte hard with the gun. “You did it. You were the one who killed that man, and you let that professor take the rap.” Her breath was coming in short gasps. Then an evil looking smile pulled her lips into a parody of the emotion, and she whispered loudly, “And I know something else too. I know exactly how much you were paying Drew to keep his mouth shut, so don’t go trying to weasel out of it. But now you can pay me instead. Last I heard, there’s no statue of limitation on murder, so if you don’t pay, I’ll go to the cops.”
Call her bluff. It was a desperate ploy, one that could easily push the woman over the edge, but Charlotte figured she didn’t have a lot of choices. In what she hoped looked like a defiant gesture, she lifted her chin and glared down her nose at the woman. “I think that’s the best idea yet,” she told her. “Go ahead. Go to the cops. Better yet, use my phone and call them right now.”
For what seemed like an eternity, the woman stared at Charlotte. Then sudden anger flashed in her eyes and her face turned beet red. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice harsh and chilling. “You think you’re so smart, but I’ve got news for you. I’m smarter. Those two brats of yours are due home any minute now, aren’t they? Either give me the money or I’ll kill them both.” She leaned closer to Charlotte’s face, then screamed, “I mean it! I’ll kill the little brats, so give it to me now!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught a glimpse of movement from the front porch through the side window. The boys! Were they home already?
“Okay, okay!” Charlotte threw up her hands and tried desperately to think of some way to distract the dangerous woman. Time. She needed to buy time. Praying that Marian would hear her and keep the boys out of the house, she raised the pitch of her voice. “I’ll get you your money!” she told her. “Anything—but please don’t hurt my boys.” She motioned toward the end of the hallway. “I keep money in my office back there.”
Darla poked Charlotte with the gun. “That’s much better. Now let’s go get it. Turn around—” Charlotte turned. “Slowly now,” the woman warned. “And you’d better not try anything.”
All the way down the hallway, Charlotte felt the pressure of the gun in the small of her back as she forced her trembling legs to move toward Marian’s office.
Once inside the room, Charlotte motioned toward the desk. “The money’s in the desk.”
When they reached the desk, Darla snapped at her, “Get it, but you’d better not try anything.”
“H-how much do you want?” Charlotte asked as she eased slowly to the other side of the desk.
“All of it,” Darla snapped. “I want all that you’ve got.”
Now what? Not knowing what else to do, Charlotte leaned down, pulled open a drawer, and began riffling through it. Since Darla was on the other side, Charlotte was pretty sure she couldn’t see what she was doing. The drawer she’d pulled out was full of folders that contained what looked like invoices. But there was also a box of envelopes as well. She pulled out an envelope, and in hopes of making it look as if it were full of money, she began slowly stuffing it with the invoices. What she needed was to buy time.
She had almost stuffed it full when she suddenly noticed that her supply carrier was within reach. As she eyed the contents of the carrier, an idea began to slowly take shape. Could she do it? Did she have enough courage to even try?
Charlotte had noticed that Darla was nervous and kept glancing around the room, especially toward the doorway. Still pretending to stuff the envelope with money, out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte watched and waited, hoping for just the right opportunity. The moment Darla glanced away, she grabbed one of the spray bottles that she was sure contained ammonia.
With her finger on the trigger, she hid the bottle behind her back. Holding out the envelope in her other hand, she sent up a short prayer for courage, then slowly stood. She thrust the envelope toward Darla. “Here’s your money,” she told her. “Take it and get out.”
Just as Charlotte had hoped, Darla had eyes only for the envelope. And just as she’d hoped, the greedy woman had to lean across the desk to get it. Leaning across the desk would throw her a bit off balance. The second she leaned forward, Charlotte whipped the bottle of ammonia from behind her back, aimed it directly at Darla’s eyes, and pumped the trigger.
Ammonia spewed out, coating Darla’s face. Darla screamed, dropped the gun, and began clawing at her eyes. The gun fell with a heavy thud on top of the desk.
Charlotte dropped the ammonia bottle, and keeping a wary eye on Darla, she immediately scooped up the gun. Once she had it, she ran for the door.
The sound of police car sirens reached her ears, and Charlotte sprinted down the hallway toward the foyer. The moment she jerked open the front door, she froze.
For the second time in the course of an hour, she found herself facing the wrong end of a gun.
Two policemen were already on the porch, their guns drawn, and more were spilling out of patrol cars.
“Put it down, lady,” the taller of the two policemen shouted. “Put the gun down now!”
“Okay, okay!” she shouted back. “See—” She bent down and placed the gun on the porch. “I’m putting it down.”
“Easy, lady. Now kick it this way.”
“Gladly,” she muttered, as she kicked the gun toward the two policemen.
The moment the gun slid away, the shorter policeman approached her. “Hands above your head.”
“Officer, if you’d just let me explain—”
“Do it, lady! Hands above your head.”
Charlotte raised her hands. “Please, sir, I’m just the maid. My name is Charlotte LaRue and my niece is Detective Judith Monroe. The woman you want is inside, and that’s her gun.”
“Hey, Joe,” a familiar voice shouted. “She’s telling the truth. She’s okay.”
Charlotte sent up a prayer of thanks as Billy Wilson bounded up the steps. “Oh, Billy, am I ever glad to see you.”
After Charlotte gave an abbreviated version of what had happened, Billy sent two of the other officers inside the house after Darla Shaw.
Within minutes, Darla was in custody and an ambulance had been called to transport her to the nearest hospital.
With Darla subdued, Charlotte explained that her employer was still inside the house somewhere. Accompanied by Billy, she went back inside to look for Marian.
“That ammonia trick was some smart thinking on your part, Ms. LaRue,” Billy told her at the doorway to the kitchen. “That took a lot of guts. Just one thing, though. It sure seems strange how you’re always around when this stuff happens.”
Charlotte shuddered. “Not my choice, I assure you. Just lucky, I guess,” she mumbled sarcastically. “Seriously though, I am lucky that you were here and vouched for me…again. Thanks, Billy.”
Billy shrugged. “No big deal.”
When they entered the kitchen, it was empty. Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t understand where she could be. I—”
Billy heard the noise at the same time that Charlotte heard it. He pointed to the pantry, and Charlotte nodded.
“Marian, it’s Charlotte.” She walked to the pantry. “You can come out now. The police are here.” She opened the door, and her face fell. “Oh, Marian…”
The pantry was the walk-in type, but there was barely room to turn around inside. Marian was scrunched up, sitting on the floor, her whole body shaking. In one hand was a butcher knife, and in the other hand she was clutching an empty liquor bottle.
She glanced up at Charlotte. “Oh, Ch-Charlotte! I—I was s-so scared.” When she stumbled to her feet, the knife and bottle clattered to the floor, and Charlotte had to grab her to keep her from falling. “Is—is she gone?” she stammered, her words slurred. “Is that awful woman gone?” Her breath reeked of liquor and Charlotte frowned.
“Not yet,” Charlotte told her. “But it’s safe. The police have her now.”
Marian was deathly pale and continued to shake. “I don’t feel so good.” Then she suddenly groaned. “Oh, noooo—I—I think I—I’m going to be sick.” She crossed her arms, hugging her stomach, and doubled over.
“Okay, okay—just hold on!” Charlotte told her.
“Here, let me help you,” Billy offered.
Between them, they got her to the bathroom just in time before Marian threw up. Knowing how embarrassed Marian would be later, Charlotte assured Billy that she could handle things, then shooed him out of the bathroom. Once she’d firmly shut the door, she wet a washcloth and wrung it out, then waited. When it seemed that nothing else could possibly come out of the poor woman, Charlotte flushed the toilet, then kneeled down beside Marian and began blotting her forehead with the wet washcloth.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” she whispered, still pale and shaky a few minutes later. “I—I was so scared and I just couldn’t seem to stop drinking, especially after I heard what that woman said.” She stared at Charlotte with miserable eyes. “I—I guess I owe you an explanation.”
Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Marian, but I’m afraid the police are going to have a lot of questions. And—I have to confess—I am curious. But I’m more concerned than curious. About you,” she added, “and about B.J.”
Marian suddenly grabbed Charlotte by the arm. “Please, Charlotte—please don’t tell them all that stuff that woman said.”
Charlotte covered Marian’s hand with her own. “I’m not the one you have to worry about. Who you have to worry about is Darla Shaw and what she tells them.”
“Well, she can tell them anything she damn well pleases, but it’s not true—not about me driving the professor’s car that night. Oh, I thought it was. For almost twenty years I thought it was my fault—that I was the one driving when that poor man was killed.” She shook her head. “We were all so drunk that night, but I was the worst of the lot. I was so spaced out that I don’t even remember what happened. But one thing I know now—it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t steal the professor’s car, and I swear to you, I didn’t run over that man. I wasn’t the one who was driving that night. I didn’t kill him.”
Given Marian’s inebriated state, Charlotte decided that she was telling the truth. And because she was a bit less inhibited than she might have been sober, Charlotte pressed her advantage. “And what about Drew Bergeron?” she asked softly. “Did you kill him?”
“I wish I had. I’ve wished it a thousand times. If anybody had reason to”—She thumped herself on the chest—“it was me. For the past two years, ever since his so-called first death, Drew’s been soaking me dry—blackmailing me. And this whole mess—everything—is all his fault. His and Bill’s,” she murmured, casting her eyes downward to stare at the floor.
After a moment, she sighed. “Poor Bill. He was so angry when he found out. It was only then that he finally told me the truth, only after he realized that Drew was still alive and had been blackmailing me. That was the day before Bill—before he died.”
Her expression grew hard. “You see,” she said bitterly, “it was Drew all along. Drew was the one driving that night, and he’d persuaded Bill to let me think that I’d been at the wheel. Then they both persuaded me to let the professor take the blame.”
Charlotte frowned. “All those years, your own husband let you think that you’d killed a man?”
Marian shook her head. “We weren’t married then.”
“So why didn’t he tell you later, after you were married?”
“Guilt,” she answered. “Plain and simple—he felt too guilty about everything, and by that time, things had gone too far. After the professor was convicted, I—I had a nervous breakdown and tried to—to commit suicide—too much booze and drugs, and too much of my own guilt, thinking that I had not only killed a man, but had let an innocent man go to prison.
“It was after my suicide attempt that Bill told me he hadn’t realized how much he loved me until then. But seeing me like that—” She shrugged. “He blamed himself and said that was when he decided to spend the rest of his life trying to make it all up to me.
“At that time I was a basket case, and so needy—” She shook her head. “I’d always loved Bill anyway, so it was easy just to give in and let him take over, let him take care of me. And you know how those things go. Time passes and it gets harder and harder to tell the truth.”
Unfortunately, Charlotte did know. She’d spent years living her own lie, pretending that she had married her son’s father before he left for Vietnam when she hadn’t. Only after Hank was almost a grown man and had begun asking questions had she found the courage to tell him the truth.
Marian sighed. “Once Bill told me the truth, I was furious—so angry, so hurt, and—” She swallowed hard. “All those years—” She bowed her head and rubbed her forehead. “Anyway—” She dropped her hand and raised her head. “We had a huge fight—lots of yelling and screaming—and I threatened to take the boys and leave him, divorce him. Then, the next day—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “The next day he was gone—killed in that explosion.
“Oh, Charlotte—” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was all my fault. In spite of his lies and deceptions, Bill really loved me and the boys. We were his world, and when he thought I was taking them away, he—” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed softly.
Several moments passed before Marian spoke again. “I didn’t kill Drew,” she finally whispered. “But he deserved to die.”
Though Charlotte was relieved and satisfied that Marian was telling the truth, she had still needed to ask, had still needed to hear Marian deny it.
“Marian—” She reached up and squeezed Marian’s shoulder. “About your husband. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe that he killed himself. In fact, I don’t think his death was an accident either. I’m convinced that Mr. Hebert was murdered. I’m also convinced that you need to tell the police exactly what you’ve just told me.”
Marian suddenly jerked away. “No!” Her eyes were wild with panic as she glared at Charlotte. “Don’t you see? If I tell the police, they’re going to think I killed Drew. Then, who’s going to take care of my boys?” She shook her head. “No way—and if you tell them, I’ll deny it—deny it all.”
“Whoa—just calm down,” Charlotte soothed. “In the first place, I’m not telling anybody anything. But just listen to me for a minute. If I’m right, Sam Roberts is really Professor Arthur Samuel, and he’s seeking retribution and revenge for his life being ruined. He wants justice.
“I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he found out about that night. Somehow he found out that the three of you stole his car and killed that pedestrian, then set him up to take the blame. He’s already murdered Drew, and I believe he also murdered Mr. Hebert. Two out of the three of you are dead….” Charlotte’s voice trailed away, and she gave Marian a moment to mull over what she’d said.
Then, softly, she continued. “Don’t you get it? If you don’t go to the police, he’ll eventually kill you too, just like he killed Mr. Bergeron and your husband.”
Marian’s face was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions, and Charlotte pressed her advantage. “One other thing you need to consider. Sam has already befriended B.J. and Aaron. They both trust him. What if he decides to take his revenge out on them?”
Chapter Twenty-five
“N o!” Marian moaned. “Not my boys! He—he couldn’t. He really cares about B.J. and Aaron.” She shuddered. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte grabbed Marian by both shoulders and shook her once, hard. “Are you willing to bet your sons’ lives on it?”
For long seconds Marian stared at her, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“Don’t be naive, Marian. We’re talking about a man who lost everything because of what the three of you did to him—his family, his job, his reputation—everything! I was there when they found Drew Bergeron. I saw his body. Sam shot him at close range in the head, execution style. This is a man who has already systematically killed off two of the three people he blames for ruining his life. And if you don’t stop him, he’ll kill you too. Even worse, what better way to get his revenge on you than to first take away everything that means anything to you? And even if he doesn’t kill your sons, what will happen to them if he kills you?”
Once again, Marian’s eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks, and finally she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”
Relief flooded through Charlotte. “Good!” She released her hold on Marian. “The first thing we need is a sympathetic ally. I’m going to call my niece, Judith. If you remember, she’s one of the detectives that questioned you after Drew’s body was found.”
“That’s why she looked so familiar that day.”
Charlotte nodded. “After I phone Judith, you need to call your attorney. For now, though, just let me do all the talking out there until Judith gets here. Okay?”
“Okay,” Marian whispered.
“Now—” Charlotte pushed herself up off the floor and stood. “Let’s get out of here. No—wait! On second thought, maybe we should just stay in here as long as we can. That way, we won’t have to answer so many questions until Judith comes.”
“Sounds good to me,” Marian agreed. “Believe me, I’m not in any hurry.”
Charlotte nodded, then pulled her cell phone out of her apron pocket. She’d just dialed Judith’s number when Marian suddenly lurched to her feet. “The boys!” she sputtered. “What time is it?”
The number was ringing, but Charlotte quickly glanced at her watch. “It’s a little past three, but I thought I—”
Marian closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, good.” She closed the lid of the toilet and sat down. “It’s still a while before they get home from school.”
Then who was on the porch? Charlotte didn’t have time to think about it. At that moment, Judith answered her call.
“Judith, hon, it’s me. I’m at Marian Hebert’s house, and I need you to get over here as soon as possible.”
“What’s wrong, Aunt Charley?”
“I’ll explain when you get here—and Judith, it’s urgent, so please hurry.” Charlotte ended the call, then handed the phone to Marian. “Call your attorney.”
While Marian was on the phone, Charlotte put her ear to the bathroom door and listened. Was Billy still out there, waiting for them to come out, or had he posted another officer at the door to wait for them?
She didn’t hear any movement or voices, but there was only one way to find out for sure, she decided. Easing the door open, she peeked out into the hallway. So far, so good. No one was standing guard at the door, and from the sounds she was hearing, no one was even in the house. They were all out front or on the porch.
Now if they could only keep stalling until Judith got there. She eased the door shut again. Marian was still talking on the phone, and though the bathroom was adequate, it was small.
Charlotte had never been claustrophobic before, but the small confines of the bathroom, along with the lingering smell from Marian being sick, was starting to get to her.
Delayed shock, she decided as she gripped the edge of the countertop. But who wouldn’t feel weak and queasy after what she’d just been through? Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself.
Suddenly, there was a sharp rap on the bathroom door. The noise reverberated and echoed in the small tiled room, and Charlotte almost jumped out of her skin.
“Ms. LaRue! Everything all right in there?”
“Ah—yes, Billy,” Charlotte answered. “Everything’s fine.”
“Ma’am, we need to ask a few more questions.”
“Okay,” she told him. “Just give us a couple more minutes.” To Marian she whispered, “Is your attorney coming?”
Marian nodded and handed Charlotte the phone. “He’s on his way.”
“Good. Now remember—let me do all the talking.” She helped Marian to her feet. “Ready?”
Marian shrugged. “Not really, but I guess I don’t have any choice.” She glanced in the mirror, then made a face. “At least I won’t have to lie about not feeling well. All they have to do is look at me.”
Charlotte gave her a quick smile for courage. Then, ever conscious that she needed to buy time until Judith got there, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Billy, why don’t we all go into the family room? I’m sure Ms. Hebert would be much more comfortable in there than standing around on the porch. She’s still feeling a bit weak,” she added for good measure.
Billy took one look at Marian and nodded his agreement. A few minutes later, he and another officer joined Charlotte and Marian in the family room. Marian was sitting in one of the two chairs that faced the sofa, and Charlotte chose to remain standing nearby, in hopes that the attention would be on her instead of Marian.
“This is Officer Hardy,” Billy told Charlotte.
Charlotte nodded, recognizing the policeman as one of the officers who had held a gun on her earlier on the porch.
“We’ve talked briefly to Ms. Shaw, ma’am, but we’d like to hear your version of what happened.”
Carefully choosing her words to avoid any references to Darla’s real motivation for showing up on Marian’s doorstep, Charlotte kept her explanation as simple as possible, starting with Darla mistaking her for Marian.
“That poor woman,” she said when she’d finished. “Evidently she was just crazy with grief over the death of Mr. Bergeron and, for whatever reason, she got it in her head that Marian had killed him. Of course, that’s ridiculous. Marian wasn’t anywhere near the Devilier house on the night that he was murdered.” She shrugged. “Like I said, I figure she was just crazy with grief, and because Mr. Bergeron and Marian had once been friends, she got confused. I’m just grateful that Marian had the good sense to phone you guys and that you showed up so quickly.”
The explanation she’d given had holes in it big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through, and she prepared herself, fully expecting to be interrogated further.
Footsteps coming down the hallway momentarily distracted the officers, and when Judith marched into the room, Charlotte sagged from relief.
After giving a nod of greeting to the two officers and to Marian, Judith directed her attention to Charlotte. “You okay, Aunt Charley?” When Charlotte nodded, Judith turned to the two officers. “Could you guys give me a few minutes alone with my aunt?”
Once the two officers had left the room, Judith approached Charlotte. “Are you sure you’re okay, Auntie? You look a little pale to me.” She motioned toward the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down over here?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll sit down, but I’m okay, hon. Just still a bit shaky. It’s not every day I get guns pointed at me,” she added.
Judith seated herself beside Charlotte. “Now, what’s this all about, Auntie?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “I know who killed Drew Bergeron.”
Judith threw a suspicious look at Marian, then turned her attention back to her aunt. “I’m listening.”
“Before you jump to any conclusions—” Charlotte tilted her head toward Marian. “Let me explain. There are still some missing pieces to the puzzle, but it all started over twenty years ago. Marian, her husband, and Drew Bergeron were all friends at Tulane. As college kids do sometimes, they all got drunk one night.”
As quickly as she could, Charlotte recounted the story about the three stealing the professor’s car for a joyride and about Drew and Bill letting Marian believe that she had been responsible for the death of the man that Drew had run over during their escapade.
“According to the news articles I read,” Charlotte continued, “the man who was run over gave a description and part of the license number of the car that hit him before he died. The professor—Professor Arthur Samuel—had already been given several tickets for drunk driving, and of course the police arrested him. The professor was tried and convicted, and served a ten-year sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t know how he did it, but I believe that the professor somehow found out the truth and is now getting his revenge.”
Judith held up a hand. “That’s a pretty tall tale, Aunt Charley. In the first place, it’s kind of hard to buy that they were able to convince Mrs. Hebert that she was driving.”
“Ah, excuse me,” Marian interrupted. “As embarrassed as I am to admit it, it wasn’t hard at all. You see, I was so out of it that I really didn’t remember any of what happened that night after a certain point. As they say, drugs and alcohol don’t mix.”
Judith nodded slowly. “Hmm, yes—well, I guess it’s possible, but—” She turned back to Charlotte. “How do you know so much about this professor, Auntie, and what does this have to do with Drew Bergeron’s murder or Darla Shaw, for that matter? And where is this professor now?”
Charlotte sighed. “It’s a bit complicated,” she finally answered. “Just bear with me while I try to explain.”
Beginning with the day Bitsy had showed her the Tulane yearbook, Charlotte told her niece about the events that had transpired. Since she was now sure that Sam Roberts had murdered Drew Bergeron and possibly Bill Hebert too, she saw no reason to reveal B.J.’s presence in the Devilier house when Drew Bergeron was murdered. At least not yet.
“You see,” she continued, “Marian employs a handyman named Sam Roberts. Since I had seen Sam around here quite a bit, it struck me that there was a marked resemblance between Sam and the professor.” Then she explained about the cigars beneath B.J.’s bed, and leaving out the reason she’d been at Sam’s house, she told Judith about seeing similar ones there as well as at the Devilier house. “B.J. had kept some of his dad’s things, and that included the cigars. I guess since he and Sam had struck up a friendship of sorts, B.J. had given him some of the cigars. Of course there’s also the purple Mardi Gras mask thing. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and the only thing I can come up with is that the color purple stands for justice. The professor is finally getting justice for what was done to him.
“When Darla Shaw showed up at the door today and began ranting and raving, it all began to make a weird sort of sense.” Charlotte’s gaze slid to Marian, and Marian, understanding that it was her turn to talk, nodded.
“You see,” Marian began, “for the past two years Drew Bergeron has been blackmailing me. I guess Darla Shaw knew about it and when Drew was murdered, she went a little crazy and got it in her head that I had killed Drew. Lord knows, I had enough reason to, but I didn’t,” she quickly added. “Anyway—this Darla Shaw woman decided to take up where Drew left off with the blackmailing thing.”
“But there’s more, Judith,” Charlotte added. “I also believe that Sam Roberts killed Marian’s husband as well. If you check into it, I think you’ll find that Bill Hebert’s death was under suspicious circumstances—and did I mention that Sam Roberts worked for Marian’s husband first, before he worked for Marian?”
For long moments Judith simply sat there, silently staring first at Charlotte, then at Marian, and Charlotte held her breath.
Judith abruptly stood. “You know what, ladies?” She gave each of them a pointed look. “I think I believe you—at least enough to bring Sam Roberts in for questioning.”
Charlotte released her breath in a huge sigh, and Marian dropped her head as if offering up a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Judith cleared her throat. “But Mrs. Hebert—”
Marian raised her head and looked at Judith.
“Don’t plan on leaving town any time soon.”
Charlotte stayed with Marian until the police had cleared out. “Why don’t I fix you a fresh cup of coffee?” she offered, when the last police car drove away.
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m sure you have other things to do besides wait on me.”
What Charlotte really wanted was to stay a bit longer, mostly to satisfy herself that Marian was going to be okay. “Well, I was hoping to wait around for the boys to get home anyway. I’ve been meaning to thank them for that lovely music box they gave me.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. Thanks for everything.” Marian closed the front door. “The boys should be home any minute now, and I could sure use a cup of something.” Then she gave a nervous laugh. “I’d say I could use a drink, but that’s what got me into this whole mess to begin with.”
Charlotte nodded, and knowing she could be jeopardizing her job to even suggest what was on her mind, she decided that she had to try, job or no job, for Marian’s sake as well as the welfare of Marian’s sons. “Marian, I know it’s none of my business, but have you ever considered AA?”
Marian shrugged and began walking slowly toward the kitchen. “I used to go, but I quit. Now, though—after all that’s happened—who knows, maybe now would be a good time to start up again.”
In the kitchen, while Charlotte prepared the coffeemaker, she decided she might as well broach another touchy subject while she was at it.
Marian had seated herself at the kitchen table, and Charlotte turned to face her. “Ah—Marian, I was just wondering about something. I was just wondering if there’s some way we can get around B.J. knowing that I blew the whistle on Sam. I don’t want B.J. to think that I betrayed him—you know, about the cigars,” she added, still uncomfortable about the secret she was keeping about B.J. being present on the night that Drew Bergeron was murdered.
Marian smiled. “Well, he won’t hear it from me.” She shook her head. “Poor B.J. No wonder he’s been so moody lately. I had no idea that he’d kept some of Bill’s things. That’s how out of it I’ve been since Bill died.”
Charlotte had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Marian that she’d been more out of it than she could dream when it came to B.J.
“But not anymore,” Marian added firmly. “Life’s too uncertain and too short. Bill loved our sons with all of his heart, but Bill’s gone. And I owe it to him and the boys—and myself—to get on with my life and to take care of our boys.”
“Yes,” Charlotte murmured. “Yes, you do.”
Charlotte and Marian had just taken their first sips of coffee when they heard the clatter of the boys on the back porch. Within seconds, like a whirlwind, Aaron and B.J. burst through the kitchen door.
“Did not!” Aaron yelled at his brother.
“You little brat!” B.J. yelled back. “You did too.”
“Mom! B.J. said I—”
“Zip it!” Marian ordered.
“But Mom,” Aaron whined.
Marian shook her finger at him. “I said zip it. Right now! I’m tired of this bickering and it’s going to stop.”
The astounded look on both boys’ faces was priceless, and Charlotte had to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning.
“There’s going to be some changes around here,” Marian told them in a stern, no-nonsense voice. “Some new rules, starting today, and the first rule is no more fighting. Now, both of you, show some manners and say hello to Ms. LaRue.”
When Charlotte finally decided it was time to go home a few minutes later, Marian walked her to the van. “I just wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done today,” she told Charlotte. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”
Charlotte smiled. “No thanks needed. Besides, you’re the one who called the police.”
A puzzled frown shadowed Marian’s face. “That’s just it. I didn’t—didn’t call the police, that is.”
Charlotte went stone still. “You didn’t?”
Marian shook her head. “No.”
It was Charlotte’s turn to frown. “Then how—who—”
After a moment, Marian gestured toward the house next door. “Maybe one of the neighbors?” she suggested.
Charlotte sighed, still a bit confused. “Maybe.” She paused, then finally shrugged. “Oh, well, guess it doesn’t really matter who called in the long run. The point is that someone called them and they came.”
Later that evening, Charlotte had just loaded the dirty dishes from her supper into the dishwasher when she heard a car door slam out front. Within minutes, there was a knock at the door.
“I was just thinking about calling you,” Charlotte told Judith when she opened the door. Judith came inside, and Charlotte closed the door. “Have you eaten supper yet, hon?”
Judith shook her head. “Not yet, Auntie. I just stopped by for a moment, though. I have a dinner date at seven.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “With Will?”
“No, Auntie, not with Will. That’s over.”
“Over as in you’re not partners anymore?”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Over as in we’re not lovers anymore,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve put in a request for a new partner.”
Though it was difficult, Charlotte was able to maintain a neutral expression instead of grinning from ear to ear with relief.
“Actually, I’m meeting Billy Wilson,” Judith told her.
This time Charlotte did grin. “I think that’s just wonderful. He seems like such a nice young man.”
“Yeah, right! That’s not what you said a few months ago. As I recall, I think what you said was something like, ‘Someone needs to teach him some manners.’”
“Humph, that was different,” Charlotte retorted. “That was before I got to know him a little better.” She paused. “You know, it just now occurred to me that Billy and one of my employees have the same last name. Wonder if they’re related?”
Judith shrugged. “Could be distant cousins.”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll have to ask Nadia. Anyway—” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “If I can’t feed you, would you like something to drink? Some iced tea or coffee?”
“No, thanks, Auntie. I just came by to check on you and to let you know that we’ve arrested Sam Roberts.”
“Arrested him?”
Judith nodded. “One thing led to another, and he ended up confessing to murdering Drew Bergeron. I have to tell you, though, that was the strangest interrogation I’ve ever conducted. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for us and was relieved when we finally showed up. In fact, even more strange, he seemed more concerned about Marian Hebert than his own arrest. He kept asking was she okay and were her boys okay. He even asked about Darla Shaw—asked if we’d caught her. And that was way before anyone even mentioned anything about her.” Judith shook her head. “Like I said, though, I just dropped by to tell you he’s been arrested and to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well, it’s a relief that he’s been arrested, and I’m just fine, hon. Now stop being such a worrywart, and get on out of here.” Charlotte nudged her toward the door. “Go get something to eat and—” Charlotte gave her an exaggerated wink. “Tell that nice Billy Wilson hello for me.”
Judith burst out laughing. “Okay—okay, I can take a hint.”
As Charlotte stood at the door and watched her niece drive away a few minutes later, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Judith had said in regard to Sam Roberts’ concern for Marian and the boys. And what of Darla Shaw? How had he even known that Darla Shaw was there…unless…
Just as Charlotte closed the door, she froze, her hand still on the doorknob. “Of course,” she murmured. The reason Sam knew about Darla Shaw was because he’d been there, on the porch. The movement she’d seen through the window had been Sam, not the boys. Could he also have been the person who had called the police as well? But why? If he’d been out for revenge, then why would he want to help Marian?
Charlotte locked her front door and walked over to stare out the window into the dark night. She would probably never know for sure who had called the police, but in spite of everything, she’d like to think that Sam had been the one. She’d like to think that there was some part of him able to recognize that, like him, Marian had also been an innocent victim.
Charlotte turned away from the window and stepped over to Sweety Boy’s cage. “People sure do get themselves in a mess, don’t they, Boy?”
The little parakeet pranced back and forth on his perch. “Crazy,” he chirped. “Crazy, crazy.”
“Yeah, and birds too, huh, Boy? Even little birds get themselves in a pickle sometimes.”
Judging by his looks and actions, the little bird had completely recovered from his mishap in the shower. Even so, Charlotte was still nervous and a bit gun-shy about letting him out of his cage again.
“So tell me. What do you think about Judith and Billy? Any possibilities there?”
For an answer, Sweety Boy squawked and fluffed his wings.
“Well, if you want my opinion,” Charlotte told him, “going out with Billy Wilson sure beats the heck out of having an affair with a married man.” She shook her head. “The very nerve of that—that Will Richeaux person. And him with a wife and a child.”
Charlotte turned away from Sweety Boy’s cage and walked over to the coffee table in front of the sofa. On the table was a small spray of silk flowers and the special candle that she intended placing on Hank Senior’s tomb.
She smoothed a finger over one of the red roses in the spray. All Saints’ Day was on Saturday, so on her way home from Marian’s earlier, she’d stopped off at a florist on Magazine Street.
“I should have bought candy too,” she murmured. Though there didn’t seem to be as many trick-or-treaters as there used to be in her neighborhood, she figured it was better to be prepared, just in case. Besides, she was sure that Nadia and Daniel would bring Davy by. Charlotte smiled. She’d have to pick up an extra-special treat for the little boy.
Still staring at the flowers, she thought of Hank’s offer to take her to the cemetery. Would he remember?
Chapter Twenty-six
C harlotte’s doctor appointment was scheduled for ten o’clock on Thursday morning. With dread heavily weighing down every footstep, she walked up to the front desk to let the receptionist know she was there.
The waiting room was full, with few available empty chairs. Charlotte had just seated herself and picked up a three-month-old issue of Good Housekeeping magazine when, to her surprise, her name was called.
Even more surprising, a nurse led her back to a small, well-appointed office instead of an examination room.
“The doctor should be in momentarily,” the nurse told her.
Charlotte barely had time to look around the office before the outer door opened, and the doctor walked in.
“Good morning.”
Charlotte acknowledged his greeting with a nod and a tentative smile.
After seating himself behind the desk, he opened a folder and studied it for several minutes. Then he glanced up.
“Everything looks good, Ms. LaRue. Since you don’t have a history of fainting and, according to the test results so far, you appear to be healthy for a woman your age, I really think your fainting spell was probably due more to the stress of the situation.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Charlotte muttered.
The doctor held up his hand. “But there is one more test I’d like to run.”
“What kind of test, and for what?”
“It’s a glucose tolerance test.”
Charlotte’s stomach tightened. “Isn’t that a test for diabetes?”
The doctor nodded. “Make an appointment to come in as soon as you can.” He stood. “The nurse will give you instructions.”
Diabetes. Charlotte shuddered. “Ah—excuse me, but is that really necessary?”
He shrugged. “Mostly precautionary, but the sooner you take the test, the sooner we can rule out the possibility of you having diabetes.”
The minute the doctor disappeared through the doorway, Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and placed a call to Marian Hebert. He’d said “as soon as you can,” and Charlotte figured she might as well get it over with and be done with it.
Marian’s answering machine picked up the call.
“Marian, this is Charlotte. Something’s come up, and I’ll either need to reschedule to come in on Saturday instead of tomorrow or I can send someone else out tomorrow. Just give me a call and let me know which you’d prefer.”
Charlotte disconnected the call and stood just as the nurse came in. She handed Charlotte a paper. “These are your instructions, Ms. LaRue, and an explanation of the procedure. You will need to fast—nothing to eat or drink after midnight on the night before you come in for the test.”
Charlotte nodded that she understood, and slipping the paper and her cell phone back inside her purse, she followed the nurse out of the office.
Once back out into the front office, she headed straight for the receptionist’s desk and scheduled an appointment for the next day.
It was almost noon by the time Charlotte finished running her errands and pulled into her driveway. One of her errands had been to purchase candy for Friday night. Besides a couple of bags of assorted candy, she’d bought an especially huge lollipop shaped like a pumpkin as a special treat for Davy. While picking out the candy, she’d noticed that all of the Halloween decorations had been marked down to half price. Not since Hank was a boy had she bothered decorating her porch for Halloween, so with thoughts of Davy, on a whim, she’d bought a ceramic pumpkin, a fake spider’s web, and other various creepy items to put out.
The first thing she did once she was inside was check her answering machine. There were two messages. Charlotte tapped the play button.
“Mom, about Saturday. It looks like the best time for me to take you to the cemetery is around ten. Let me know if that’s okay with you. Love you.”
The machine beeped and the second message played.
“Charlotte, this is Marian, returning your call. Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow, and I’d just as soon you wouldn’t send anyone else. Everything here is still in pretty good shape from Wednesday’s cleaning. And it’s about time those boys of mine learned how to do a few chores anyway. Just make sure you come on Monday, okay?” There was a pause, then, “Another thing, Charlotte. I went to an AA meeting last night. Just thought you might want to know. Oh, and one more thing. My attorney doesn’t seem to think I’ll have any legal problems because of everything that happened, but we’ll talk more later. Bye now.”
And the truth shall make you free. Charlotte smiled as she headed for the kitchen. It was a start. A good, positive start. Maybe now Marian could finally get on with her life and be the kind of mother her boys so desperately needed her to be.
After a quick lunch, Charlotte set about decorating the porch. The few things she’d bought didn’t take long to put out. Once she’d finished, she walked to the curb, turned, and with her hands on her hips, she stared back at the porch with a critical eye. Satisfied, she was walking back to the steps when Louis pulled into the driveway and parked.
Charlotte frowned. “Hi there, Louis. What are you doing home this time of day?”
Louis shrugged as he approached the porch. “I had some time coming, and I have some thinking to do.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened. “Sounds serious.”
“Yeah, I’d say it was pretty serious.” He seated himself on the top step and motioned for Charlotte to sit beside him. Once she was seated, for several moments he simply stared out into the street.
Finally, he cleared his throat, and still staring out into the street, he said, “I spent a good part of this morning interrogating Sam Roberts.” He shook his head. “Questioning him was a really strange experience. He cooperated fully, even seemed to be relieved that he’d been found out.”
Recalling that Judith had said the same thing, Charlotte nodded when Louis shifted his gaze to stare at her.
“He also admitted that he killed Bill Hebert,” Louis told her.
“I suspected as much.”
Louis shrugged. “Even if he hadn’t confessed, we could have still tied him to Drew Bergeron’s murder. Just this morning we finished tracing the Mardi Gras mask back to him. With DNA testing, we can also link him to the cigar found at the crime scene.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “So what’s still bothering you about it?”
Louis shoved his fingers through his hair and heaved a heavy sigh. “He had it all—reputation, a family, a position in the community—and he lost it. Lost everything. That man has spent most of his life either paying for a crime he didn’t commit or searching for a way to clear himself. According to what he said, once he got out of prison, he spent almost every penny he earned on private detectives to find out the truth about what really happened that night.
“He started out simply trying to clear his name because he didn’t want his children to think their father was a killer. But somewhere along the way, he snapped, and the lines got crossed. Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy, he became the very thing he’d been accused of—a killer. Now he has nothing but more prison and probably a death sentence to look forward to.” Louis paused, then muttered, “Such a waste of a life—of three lives if you count Drew Bergeron and Bill Hebert.”
Along with Marian Hebert, Charlotte silently added as she narrowed her eyes shrewdly. It was obvious that Sam’s fate wasn’t the only thing on Louis’ mind. Something was still bothering him. “You do think Sam’s guilty, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s guilty all right. Tell you one thing, though, the whole thing really made me stop and think, made me realize that life’s too short to waste. When you’re young, you think you have all the time in the world to do whatever. But if you’re lucky enough to grow older, you begin to realize just how little time you really have.”
He cleared his throat, and when he leveled a look at Charlotte that was tight with strain, she held her breath, wondering what was really on his mind.
“When Stephen—that’s my son—was about twelve, my wife left us,” he finally said. “She just packed a bag and walked out one day. Said she couldn’t take it anymore, what with the long hours I was keeping and all the trouble Steve kept getting into. The next thing I knew I was being served divorce papers.”
Charlotte inwardly winced. Louis’ admission explained a lot, and though she didn’t agree with his chauvinistic attitude toward women in general, at least she understood it better.
“I tried my best to raise Steve by myself after that,” he continued, “but guess I didn’t do such a bang-up job. After she left us, he went from bad to worse and was always in some kind of trouble. For the most part, since I was a cop, I was able to bail him out each time. But when he was seventeen, he and the bunch of no-good hoodlums he hung around with got all drugged up one night while I was working and robbed a liquor store. The owner of the store was killed, and though Steve swore that he didn’t pull the trigger…” Louis’ voice trailed away.
After a moment, he continued. “That was one time I couldn’t bail him out. He and his buddies were tried as adults and convicted of manslaughter. He served twenty years in Angola.” Louis shrugged. “He’s been out of prison now for about seven years. According to what I hear, he’s doing okay for himself. It was while he was in prison that he began painting, and after he got out, he married a woman who owned the art gallery that had been displaying his paintings. And they had a little girl. He now makes a living down in the Quarter with his paintings.
“That painting I have—the one of the young girl. She’s my granddaughter,” he confessed. “He sent it to me along with the others.”
“How old is your granddaughter?”
Louis shrugged. “I guess about six.”
“And you haven’t seen or spoken to your son since he got out?”
With a look of pure abject misery on his face, Louis slowly shook his head. “It’s worse than that. I—I was so angry with him when he got mixed up in that killing, so humiliated—being a cop and all—that I disowned him—cut off all relationship with him. Then, the longer it went, the harder it became to swallow my pride. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he was sent to prison twenty-seven years ago.”
“Oh, Louis.” Charlotte was horrified. She couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing, couldn’t imagine having no contact with her son for that long a time.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
The words from the Bible verse she’d once memorized popped into her head and tugged at her conscience. While it was true that she couldn’t imagine such an estrangement, to be fair, she’d never had to deal with a son convicted of murder either, she reminded herself.
“All my fault,” he continued. “All those years wasted, and even if I try to fix it now, he probably doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. I’m just afraid it’s too late.”
Charlotte reached out and squeezed his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “Maybe not. Didn’t you say that your son sent those paintings to you?”
“Yeah, about a month ago.”
“Then stop being so dense, for Pete’s sake. Can’t you see? That’s his way of reaching out to you, of trying to make amends.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug.
“So what’s the problem?”
Louis’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Would—would you go with me—I mean, if he’ll agree to seeing me, would you go along?”
“Oh, Louis, I don’t know. It’s not really my place.”
“Well, it is if I say it is,” he retorted indignantly.
On Saturday, All Saints’ Day turned out to be a warm seventy degrees with plenty of sunshine. With Hank beside her and her arms full of the flowers she’d purchased, Charlotte and her son entered Lafayette Cemetery Number One through the Washington Street entrance.
Cemeteries in New Orleans were unique. Elaborate aboveground tombs and minimausoleums had been erected out of necessity due to the high water table of the city.
Charlotte paused by the bronze plaque near the entrance. “I’m amazed each time I come here,” she told Hank. “It’s hard to believe this place has been in existence since 1833.”
Hank simply smiled at her and waited until she was ready to walk on.
Families were already crowded around the freshly whitewashed tombs that were adorned with beautiful sprays of flowers. Though respectful, an almost festive reunion-type atmosphere prevailed among the many visitors.
Hank’s father’s tomb was located not far from the entrance, down the second pathway. Charlotte knelt beside it and reverently placed the spray of flowers at the front of the tomb.
“I wish I could have known him,” Hank told her as he stared at the tomb. When he added, “Known all of them,” Charlotte realized he was referring to his father’s family as well. As was customary, Hank had been buried in the same tomb as his parents and grandparents.
Charlotte stood, then reached out and squeezed her son’s hand. “Me too, hon. Me too.”
“Tell me about him again, Mom—about all of them—like you used to when I was a little boy.”
It had been many many years since her son had asked about his father, and Charlotte’s throat was thick with emotion as she began to talk. “Your father was a lot like you—in looks and personality. He was about your height and build, with the same sandy-colored hair and sky-blue eyes.” She swallowed hard. “Each time I look at you, I see him, especially around the eyes.
“He was a kind man,” she continued, “a man who truly cared about people.” She paused for a moment, then said, “I think I must have told you that he had also wanted to be a doctor. That’s the reason he went ahead and joined the Army, even before the government began drafting for Vietnam. You see, after his parents’ deaths—your grandparents’—it took most of their assets to settle their debts. Unfortunately for your father, your grandfather didn’t believe in life insurance either, so, like you, he had to make his own way in the world.”
“Not totally like me,” Hank pointed out. “I had you helping me every step of the way.”
Charlotte smiled. “Yes, you did. Me, student loans, and that job you had as a bouncer for a while. But anyway, back when your father was in the Army, once soldiers had finished their enlistment requirements, they could go to college and the government would help pay for it. He had it all planned. He—”
“Charlotte! Charlotte LaRue!”
Recognizing Bitsy Duhe’s squeaky voice, Charlotte turned to see the older lady headed straight for them.
Hank leaned down and whispered, “Isn’t that Mrs. Duhe, one of your clients?”
Charlotte had to smile, but she nodded. “Yep, that’s her—Ms. Bitsy Duhe, in all her glory.” Charlotte was truly relieved to see that the old lady was up and about again. And what a sight to behold she was with her flowery dress billowing around her and her hat that looked like an umbrella.
“It is an umbrella,” Charlotte murmured with a giggle.
“Did you say something?” Hank asked with a frown.
Charlotte motioned toward Bitsy. “Her hat. Miss Bitsy’s hat is a miniumbrella on a headband.”
“M y name is Darla Shaw,” the woman snarled.
Darla Shaw. A memory clicked in Charlotte’s mind. Darla Shaw was the woman Drew Bergeron had been living with in Key West, but worse, Darla Shaw was also Judith’s number-one suspect.
“I think we have some unfinished business,” the woman spat. Using the pressure of the gun, she forced Charlotte backward, into the foyer. Once they were both inside, she used the heel of her muddy shoe and kicked the door shut.
The sound of the door slamming was like the crack of a whip, and Charlotte jumped. Think, Charlotte! Think! But Charlotte’s heart was hammering against her rib cage so hard that she could hardly catch her breath, never mind think.
The woman’s dark eyes flashed contempt as her gaze slid over Charlotte from head to toe. “You’re a lot older than I thought you’d be,” she sneered.
Older?
“What gets me, though, is why he’d want some old broad like you when he had me?” Punctuating each word with a jab of the gun, she added, “Of course, all he wanted from you was money.”
Marian! She thinks I’m Marian. Charlotte opened her mouth in denial, but nothing came out but a squeak.
“All I’ve heard for weeks was Marian this and Marian that,” the woman ranted, confirming Charlotte’s suspicions. “Oh, yeah—” the woman gave an exaggerated nod. “I know all about you and what you did. And I know all about your little arrangement with Drew.” She shook her head, then moaned, “I told him not to come—the idiot! I begged him.” Then she shouted, “But would he listen? Oh, no—not him, not Mr. High and Mighty Know-it-all. Not Mr. Stud,” she spat.
The woman’s lower lip curled into a snarl. “And I was right, wasn’t I? He shouldn’t ’ave come ’cause you killed him—killed him deader than a doorknob.” Spittle flew out of her mouth. She licked her lips, then narrowed her eyes. “But I got news for you, sister. You’re gonna pay and pay big. Only this time—” She thumped herself on the chest. “This time you’re gonna pay me.”
The woman was convinced that she was Marian, and though Charlotte wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her she had the wrong person, every instinct she had warned against it.
Charlotte swallowed hard, and praying that Marian had overheard the woman ranting and raving and wasn’t too far gone to have sense enough to call the police, she decided that the only way to stay alive was to play along…or play dumb.
Gathering every ounce of courage she had within her, she decided to play dumb. She slowly shook her head. “There’s been a mistake of some kind. I don’t know any Drew, and I don’t know what or who you’re talking—”
“Liar!” the woman screamed. “You’re a damned liar. This is the right address, and you’re Marian Hebert! I know ’cause Drew told me all about your fancy house in the uppity Garden District. And I know all about you and what y’all did—you and Drew and that husband of yours—how you all got drunk as skunks that night and stole that professor’s car, and how you were the one driving.”
He’s found out…somehow he’s found out.
If Charlotte hadn’t already been scared speechless, she would have been shocked speechless as well, and if she’d had any doubts about Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel being the same man, those doubts had been put to rest, once and for all.
Even as Darla continued ranting, everything she’d said began to make a weird kind of sense. They were all connected: Drew, Bill, Marian, and Sam aka Professor Arthur Samuel. And if what Darla was saying was true, then it was no wonder that Marian suffered from emotional problems, along with alcohol abuse, and it was no wonder that Sam had changed his name and attempted to change his looks. Sam didn’t want to be recognized.
If Marian, Drew, and Bill had stolen the professor’s car that night, then they had let an innocent man pay for their crime. Even worse, though, somehow, some way, Sam had figured out that the three had stolen his car and that one of them had been responsible for the murder he’d been accused of.
A cold chill ran through Charlotte. Two of the three, Bill and Drew, were dead.
Sam had worked for Bill, and Bill had been killed in a suspicious explosion.
Then there was Drew. Charlotte had no doubt that Sam had also killed Drew as well…the cigar butt outside the closet, just like the one at Sam’s house, and just like the one she’d seen outside the closet at the Devilier house…the purple Mardi Gras mask on Drew’s face. Purple, green, and gold, all traditional Mardi Gras colors: purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power. Sam Roberts aka Professor Arthur Samuel was out for justice, and in his own macabre way, he was letting the world know that he was finally getting it.
But how? How had Sam even known that Drew was still alive to begin with? He must have, though, and now, out of the three, only Marian was left.
Darla suddenly poked Charlotte hard with the gun. “You did it. You were the one who killed that man, and you let that professor take the rap.” Her breath was coming in short gasps. Then an evil looking smile pulled her lips into a parody of the emotion, and she whispered loudly, “And I know something else too. I know exactly how much you were paying Drew to keep his mouth shut, so don’t go trying to weasel out of it. But now you can pay me instead. Last I heard, there’s no statue of limitation on murder, so if you don’t pay, I’ll go to the cops.”
Call her bluff. It was a desperate ploy, one that could easily push the woman over the edge, but Charlotte figured she didn’t have a lot of choices. In what she hoped looked like a defiant gesture, she lifted her chin and glared down her nose at the woman. “I think that’s the best idea yet,” she told her. “Go ahead. Go to the cops. Better yet, use my phone and call them right now.”
For what seemed like an eternity, the woman stared at Charlotte. Then sudden anger flashed in her eyes and her face turned beet red. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice harsh and chilling. “You think you’re so smart, but I’ve got news for you. I’m smarter. Those two brats of yours are due home any minute now, aren’t they? Either give me the money or I’ll kill them both.” She leaned closer to Charlotte’s face, then screamed, “I mean it! I’ll kill the little brats, so give it to me now!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught a glimpse of movement from the front porch through the side window. The boys! Were they home already?
“Okay, okay!” Charlotte threw up her hands and tried desperately to think of some way to distract the dangerous woman. Time. She needed to buy time. Praying that Marian would hear her and keep the boys out of the house, she raised the pitch of her voice. “I’ll get you your money!” she told her. “Anything—but please don’t hurt my boys.” She motioned toward the end of the hallway. “I keep money in my office back there.”
Darla poked Charlotte with the gun. “That’s much better. Now let’s go get it. Turn around—” Charlotte turned. “Slowly now,” the woman warned. “And you’d better not try anything.”
All the way down the hallway, Charlotte felt the pressure of the gun in the small of her back as she forced her trembling legs to move toward Marian’s office.
Once inside the room, Charlotte motioned toward the desk. “The money’s in the desk.”
When they reached the desk, Darla snapped at her, “Get it, but you’d better not try anything.”
“H-how much do you want?” Charlotte asked as she eased slowly to the other side of the desk.
“All of it,” Darla snapped. “I want all that you’ve got.”
Now what? Not knowing what else to do, Charlotte leaned down, pulled open a drawer, and began riffling through it. Since Darla was on the other side, Charlotte was pretty sure she couldn’t see what she was doing. The drawer she’d pulled out was full of folders that contained what looked like invoices. But there was also a box of envelopes as well. She pulled out an envelope, and in hopes of making it look as if it were full of money, she began slowly stuffing it with the invoices. What she needed was to buy time.
She had almost stuffed it full when she suddenly noticed that her supply carrier was within reach. As she eyed the contents of the carrier, an idea began to slowly take shape. Could she do it? Did she have enough courage to even try?
Charlotte had noticed that Darla was nervous and kept glancing around the room, especially toward the doorway. Still pretending to stuff the envelope with money, out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte watched and waited, hoping for just the right opportunity. The moment Darla glanced away, she grabbed one of the spray bottles that she was sure contained ammonia.
With her finger on the trigger, she hid the bottle behind her back. Holding out the envelope in her other hand, she sent up a short prayer for courage, then slowly stood. She thrust the envelope toward Darla. “Here’s your money,” she told her. “Take it and get out.”
Just as Charlotte had hoped, Darla had eyes only for the envelope. And just as she’d hoped, the greedy woman had to lean across the desk to get it. Leaning across the desk would throw her a bit off balance. The second she leaned forward, Charlotte whipped the bottle of ammonia from behind her back, aimed it directly at Darla’s eyes, and pumped the trigger.
Ammonia spewed out, coating Darla’s face. Darla screamed, dropped the gun, and began clawing at her eyes. The gun fell with a heavy thud on top of the desk.
Charlotte dropped the ammonia bottle, and keeping a wary eye on Darla, she immediately scooped up the gun. Once she had it, she ran for the door.
The sound of police car sirens reached her ears, and Charlotte sprinted down the hallway toward the foyer. The moment she jerked open the front door, she froze.
For the second time in the course of an hour, she found herself facing the wrong end of a gun.
Two policemen were already on the porch, their guns drawn, and more were spilling out of patrol cars.
“Put it down, lady,” the taller of the two policemen shouted. “Put the gun down now!”
“Okay, okay!” she shouted back. “See—” She bent down and placed the gun on the porch. “I’m putting it down.”
“Easy, lady. Now kick it this way.”
“Gladly,” she muttered, as she kicked the gun toward the two policemen.
The moment the gun slid away, the shorter policeman approached her. “Hands above your head.”
“Officer, if you’d just let me explain—”
“Do it, lady! Hands above your head.”
Charlotte raised her hands. “Please, sir, I’m just the maid. My name is Charlotte LaRue and my niece is Detective Judith Monroe. The woman you want is inside, and that’s her gun.”
“Hey, Joe,” a familiar voice shouted. “She’s telling the truth. She’s okay.”
Charlotte sent up a prayer of thanks as Billy Wilson bounded up the steps. “Oh, Billy, am I ever glad to see you.”
After Charlotte gave an abbreviated version of what had happened, Billy sent two of the other officers inside the house after Darla Shaw.
Within minutes, Darla was in custody and an ambulance had been called to transport her to the nearest hospital.
With Darla subdued, Charlotte explained that her employer was still inside the house somewhere. Accompanied by Billy, she went back inside to look for Marian.
“That ammonia trick was some smart thinking on your part, Ms. LaRue,” Billy told her at the doorway to the kitchen. “That took a lot of guts. Just one thing, though. It sure seems strange how you’re always around when this stuff happens.”
Charlotte shuddered. “Not my choice, I assure you. Just lucky, I guess,” she mumbled sarcastically. “Seriously though, I am lucky that you were here and vouched for me…again. Thanks, Billy.”
Billy shrugged. “No big deal.”
When they entered the kitchen, it was empty. Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t understand where she could be. I—”
Billy heard the noise at the same time that Charlotte heard it. He pointed to the pantry, and Charlotte nodded.
“Marian, it’s Charlotte.” She walked to the pantry. “You can come out now. The police are here.” She opened the door, and her face fell. “Oh, Marian…”
The pantry was the walk-in type, but there was barely room to turn around inside. Marian was scrunched up, sitting on the floor, her whole body shaking. In one hand was a butcher knife, and in the other hand she was clutching an empty liquor bottle.
She glanced up at Charlotte. “Oh, Ch-Charlotte! I—I was s-so scared.” When she stumbled to her feet, the knife and bottle clattered to the floor, and Charlotte had to grab her to keep her from falling. “Is—is she gone?” she stammered, her words slurred. “Is that awful woman gone?” Her breath reeked of liquor and Charlotte frowned.
“Not yet,” Charlotte told her. “But it’s safe. The police have her now.”
Marian was deathly pale and continued to shake. “I don’t feel so good.” Then she suddenly groaned. “Oh, noooo—I—I think I—I’m going to be sick.” She crossed her arms, hugging her stomach, and doubled over.
“Okay, okay—just hold on!” Charlotte told her.
“Here, let me help you,” Billy offered.
Between them, they got her to the bathroom just in time before Marian threw up. Knowing how embarrassed Marian would be later, Charlotte assured Billy that she could handle things, then shooed him out of the bathroom. Once she’d firmly shut the door, she wet a washcloth and wrung it out, then waited. When it seemed that nothing else could possibly come out of the poor woman, Charlotte flushed the toilet, then kneeled down beside Marian and began blotting her forehead with the wet washcloth.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” she whispered, still pale and shaky a few minutes later. “I—I was so scared and I just couldn’t seem to stop drinking, especially after I heard what that woman said.” She stared at Charlotte with miserable eyes. “I—I guess I owe you an explanation.”
Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Marian, but I’m afraid the police are going to have a lot of questions. And—I have to confess—I am curious. But I’m more concerned than curious. About you,” she added, “and about B.J.”
Marian suddenly grabbed Charlotte by the arm. “Please, Charlotte—please don’t tell them all that stuff that woman said.”
Charlotte covered Marian’s hand with her own. “I’m not the one you have to worry about. Who you have to worry about is Darla Shaw and what she tells them.”
“Well, she can tell them anything she damn well pleases, but it’s not true—not about me driving the professor’s car that night. Oh, I thought it was. For almost twenty years I thought it was my fault—that I was the one driving when that poor man was killed.” She shook her head. “We were all so drunk that night, but I was the worst of the lot. I was so spaced out that I don’t even remember what happened. But one thing I know now—it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t steal the professor’s car, and I swear to you, I didn’t run over that man. I wasn’t the one who was driving that night. I didn’t kill him.”
Given Marian’s inebriated state, Charlotte decided that she was telling the truth. And because she was a bit less inhibited than she might have been sober, Charlotte pressed her advantage. “And what about Drew Bergeron?” she asked softly. “Did you kill him?”
“I wish I had. I’ve wished it a thousand times. If anybody had reason to”—She thumped herself on the chest—“it was me. For the past two years, ever since his so-called first death, Drew’s been soaking me dry—blackmailing me. And this whole mess—everything—is all his fault. His and Bill’s,” she murmured, casting her eyes downward to stare at the floor.
After a moment, she sighed. “Poor Bill. He was so angry when he found out. It was only then that he finally told me the truth, only after he realized that Drew was still alive and had been blackmailing me. That was the day before Bill—before he died.”
Her expression grew hard. “You see,” she said bitterly, “it was Drew all along. Drew was the one driving that night, and he’d persuaded Bill to let me think that I’d been at the wheel. Then they both persuaded me to let the professor take the blame.”
Charlotte frowned. “All those years, your own husband let you think that you’d killed a man?”
Marian shook her head. “We weren’t married then.”
“So why didn’t he tell you later, after you were married?”
“Guilt,” she answered. “Plain and simple—he felt too guilty about everything, and by that time, things had gone too far. After the professor was convicted, I—I had a nervous breakdown and tried to—to commit suicide—too much booze and drugs, and too much of my own guilt, thinking that I had not only killed a man, but had let an innocent man go to prison.
“It was after my suicide attempt that Bill told me he hadn’t realized how much he loved me until then. But seeing me like that—” She shrugged. “He blamed himself and said that was when he decided to spend the rest of his life trying to make it all up to me.
“At that time I was a basket case, and so needy—” She shook her head. “I’d always loved Bill anyway, so it was easy just to give in and let him take over, let him take care of me. And you know how those things go. Time passes and it gets harder and harder to tell the truth.”
Unfortunately, Charlotte did know. She’d spent years living her own lie, pretending that she had married her son’s father before he left for Vietnam when she hadn’t. Only after Hank was almost a grown man and had begun asking questions had she found the courage to tell him the truth.
Marian sighed. “Once Bill told me the truth, I was furious—so angry, so hurt, and—” She swallowed hard. “All those years—” She bowed her head and rubbed her forehead. “Anyway—” She dropped her hand and raised her head. “We had a huge fight—lots of yelling and screaming—and I threatened to take the boys and leave him, divorce him. Then, the next day—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “The next day he was gone—killed in that explosion.
“Oh, Charlotte—” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was all my fault. In spite of his lies and deceptions, Bill really loved me and the boys. We were his world, and when he thought I was taking them away, he—” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed softly.
Several moments passed before Marian spoke again. “I didn’t kill Drew,” she finally whispered. “But he deserved to die.”
Though Charlotte was relieved and satisfied that Marian was telling the truth, she had still needed to ask, had still needed to hear Marian deny it.
“Marian—” She reached up and squeezed Marian’s shoulder. “About your husband. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe that he killed himself. In fact, I don’t think his death was an accident either. I’m convinced that Mr. Hebert was murdered. I’m also convinced that you need to tell the police exactly what you’ve just told me.”
Marian suddenly jerked away. “No!” Her eyes were wild with panic as she glared at Charlotte. “Don’t you see? If I tell the police, they’re going to think I killed Drew. Then, who’s going to take care of my boys?” She shook her head. “No way—and if you tell them, I’ll deny it—deny it all.”
“Whoa—just calm down,” Charlotte soothed. “In the first place, I’m not telling anybody anything. But just listen to me for a minute. If I’m right, Sam Roberts is really Professor Arthur Samuel, and he’s seeking retribution and revenge for his life being ruined. He wants justice.
“I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he found out about that night. Somehow he found out that the three of you stole his car and killed that pedestrian, then set him up to take the blame. He’s already murdered Drew, and I believe he also murdered Mr. Hebert. Two out of the three of you are dead….” Charlotte’s voice trailed away, and she gave Marian a moment to mull over what she’d said.
Then, softly, she continued. “Don’t you get it? If you don’t go to the police, he’ll eventually kill you too, just like he killed Mr. Bergeron and your husband.”
Marian’s face was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions, and Charlotte pressed her advantage. “One other thing you need to consider. Sam has already befriended B.J. and Aaron. They both trust him. What if he decides to take his revenge out on them?”
Chapter Twenty-five
“N o!” Marian moaned. “Not my boys! He—he couldn’t. He really cares about B.J. and Aaron.” She shuddered. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte grabbed Marian by both shoulders and shook her once, hard. “Are you willing to bet your sons’ lives on it?”
For long seconds Marian stared at her, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“Don’t be naive, Marian. We’re talking about a man who lost everything because of what the three of you did to him—his family, his job, his reputation—everything! I was there when they found Drew Bergeron. I saw his body. Sam shot him at close range in the head, execution style. This is a man who has already systematically killed off two of the three people he blames for ruining his life. And if you don’t stop him, he’ll kill you too. Even worse, what better way to get his revenge on you than to first take away everything that means anything to you? And even if he doesn’t kill your sons, what will happen to them if he kills you?”
Once again, Marian’s eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks, and finally she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”
Relief flooded through Charlotte. “Good!” She released her hold on Marian. “The first thing we need is a sympathetic ally. I’m going to call my niece, Judith. If you remember, she’s one of the detectives that questioned you after Drew’s body was found.”
“That’s why she looked so familiar that day.”
Charlotte nodded. “After I phone Judith, you need to call your attorney. For now, though, just let me do all the talking out there until Judith gets here. Okay?”
“Okay,” Marian whispered.
“Now—” Charlotte pushed herself up off the floor and stood. “Let’s get out of here. No—wait! On second thought, maybe we should just stay in here as long as we can. That way, we won’t have to answer so many questions until Judith comes.”
“Sounds good to me,” Marian agreed. “Believe me, I’m not in any hurry.”
Charlotte nodded, then pulled her cell phone out of her apron pocket. She’d just dialed Judith’s number when Marian suddenly lurched to her feet. “The boys!” she sputtered. “What time is it?”
The number was ringing, but Charlotte quickly glanced at her watch. “It’s a little past three, but I thought I—”
Marian closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, good.” She closed the lid of the toilet and sat down. “It’s still a while before they get home from school.”
Then who was on the porch? Charlotte didn’t have time to think about it. At that moment, Judith answered her call.
“Judith, hon, it’s me. I’m at Marian Hebert’s house, and I need you to get over here as soon as possible.”
“What’s wrong, Aunt Charley?”
“I’ll explain when you get here—and Judith, it’s urgent, so please hurry.” Charlotte ended the call, then handed the phone to Marian. “Call your attorney.”
While Marian was on the phone, Charlotte put her ear to the bathroom door and listened. Was Billy still out there, waiting for them to come out, or had he posted another officer at the door to wait for them?
She didn’t hear any movement or voices, but there was only one way to find out for sure, she decided. Easing the door open, she peeked out into the hallway. So far, so good. No one was standing guard at the door, and from the sounds she was hearing, no one was even in the house. They were all out front or on the porch.
Now if they could only keep stalling until Judith got there. She eased the door shut again. Marian was still talking on the phone, and though the bathroom was adequate, it was small.
Charlotte had never been claustrophobic before, but the small confines of the bathroom, along with the lingering smell from Marian being sick, was starting to get to her.
Delayed shock, she decided as she gripped the edge of the countertop. But who wouldn’t feel weak and queasy after what she’d just been through? Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself.
Suddenly, there was a sharp rap on the bathroom door. The noise reverberated and echoed in the small tiled room, and Charlotte almost jumped out of her skin.
“Ms. LaRue! Everything all right in there?”
“Ah—yes, Billy,” Charlotte answered. “Everything’s fine.”
“Ma’am, we need to ask a few more questions.”
“Okay,” she told him. “Just give us a couple more minutes.” To Marian she whispered, “Is your attorney coming?”
Marian nodded and handed Charlotte the phone. “He’s on his way.”
“Good. Now remember—let me do all the talking.” She helped Marian to her feet. “Ready?”
Marian shrugged. “Not really, but I guess I don’t have any choice.” She glanced in the mirror, then made a face. “At least I won’t have to lie about not feeling well. All they have to do is look at me.”
Charlotte gave her a quick smile for courage. Then, ever conscious that she needed to buy time until Judith got there, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Billy, why don’t we all go into the family room? I’m sure Ms. Hebert would be much more comfortable in there than standing around on the porch. She’s still feeling a bit weak,” she added for good measure.
Billy took one look at Marian and nodded his agreement. A few minutes later, he and another officer joined Charlotte and Marian in the family room. Marian was sitting in one of the two chairs that faced the sofa, and Charlotte chose to remain standing nearby, in hopes that the attention would be on her instead of Marian.
“This is Officer Hardy,” Billy told Charlotte.
Charlotte nodded, recognizing the policeman as one of the officers who had held a gun on her earlier on the porch.
“We’ve talked briefly to Ms. Shaw, ma’am, but we’d like to hear your version of what happened.”
Carefully choosing her words to avoid any references to Darla’s real motivation for showing up on Marian’s doorstep, Charlotte kept her explanation as simple as possible, starting with Darla mistaking her for Marian.
“That poor woman,” she said when she’d finished. “Evidently she was just crazy with grief over the death of Mr. Bergeron and, for whatever reason, she got it in her head that Marian had killed him. Of course, that’s ridiculous. Marian wasn’t anywhere near the Devilier house on the night that he was murdered.” She shrugged. “Like I said, I figure she was just crazy with grief, and because Mr. Bergeron and Marian had once been friends, she got confused. I’m just grateful that Marian had the good sense to phone you guys and that you showed up so quickly.”
The explanation she’d given had holes in it big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through, and she prepared herself, fully expecting to be interrogated further.
Footsteps coming down the hallway momentarily distracted the officers, and when Judith marched into the room, Charlotte sagged from relief.
After giving a nod of greeting to the two officers and to Marian, Judith directed her attention to Charlotte. “You okay, Aunt Charley?” When Charlotte nodded, Judith turned to the two officers. “Could you guys give me a few minutes alone with my aunt?”
Once the two officers had left the room, Judith approached Charlotte. “Are you sure you’re okay, Auntie? You look a little pale to me.” She motioned toward the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down over here?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll sit down, but I’m okay, hon. Just still a bit shaky. It’s not every day I get guns pointed at me,” she added.
Judith seated herself beside Charlotte. “Now, what’s this all about, Auntie?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “I know who killed Drew Bergeron.”
Judith threw a suspicious look at Marian, then turned her attention back to her aunt. “I’m listening.”
“Before you jump to any conclusions—” Charlotte tilted her head toward Marian. “Let me explain. There are still some missing pieces to the puzzle, but it all started over twenty years ago. Marian, her husband, and Drew Bergeron were all friends at Tulane. As college kids do sometimes, they all got drunk one night.”
As quickly as she could, Charlotte recounted the story about the three stealing the professor’s car for a joyride and about Drew and Bill letting Marian believe that she had been responsible for the death of the man that Drew had run over during their escapade.
“According to the news articles I read,” Charlotte continued, “the man who was run over gave a description and part of the license number of the car that hit him before he died. The professor—Professor Arthur Samuel—had already been given several tickets for drunk driving, and of course the police arrested him. The professor was tried and convicted, and served a ten-year sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t know how he did it, but I believe that the professor somehow found out the truth and is now getting his revenge.”
Judith held up a hand. “That’s a pretty tall tale, Aunt Charley. In the first place, it’s kind of hard to buy that they were able to convince Mrs. Hebert that she was driving.”
“Ah, excuse me,” Marian interrupted. “As embarrassed as I am to admit it, it wasn’t hard at all. You see, I was so out of it that I really didn’t remember any of what happened that night after a certain point. As they say, drugs and alcohol don’t mix.”
Judith nodded slowly. “Hmm, yes—well, I guess it’s possible, but—” She turned back to Charlotte. “How do you know so much about this professor, Auntie, and what does this have to do with Drew Bergeron’s murder or Darla Shaw, for that matter? And where is this professor now?”
Charlotte sighed. “It’s a bit complicated,” she finally answered. “Just bear with me while I try to explain.”
Beginning with the day Bitsy had showed her the Tulane yearbook, Charlotte told her niece about the events that had transpired. Since she was now sure that Sam Roberts had murdered Drew Bergeron and possibly Bill Hebert too, she saw no reason to reveal B.J.’s presence in the Devilier house when Drew Bergeron was murdered. At least not yet.
“You see,” she continued, “Marian employs a handyman named Sam Roberts. Since I had seen Sam around here quite a bit, it struck me that there was a marked resemblance between Sam and the professor.” Then she explained about the cigars beneath B.J.’s bed, and leaving out the reason she’d been at Sam’s house, she told Judith about seeing similar ones there as well as at the Devilier house. “B.J. had kept some of his dad’s things, and that included the cigars. I guess since he and Sam had struck up a friendship of sorts, B.J. had given him some of the cigars. Of course there’s also the purple Mardi Gras mask thing. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and the only thing I can come up with is that the color purple stands for justice. The professor is finally getting justice for what was done to him.
“When Darla Shaw showed up at the door today and began ranting and raving, it all began to make a weird sort of sense.” Charlotte’s gaze slid to Marian, and Marian, understanding that it was her turn to talk, nodded.
“You see,” Marian began, “for the past two years Drew Bergeron has been blackmailing me. I guess Darla Shaw knew about it and when Drew was murdered, she went a little crazy and got it in her head that I had killed Drew. Lord knows, I had enough reason to, but I didn’t,” she quickly added. “Anyway—this Darla Shaw woman decided to take up where Drew left off with the blackmailing thing.”
“But there’s more, Judith,” Charlotte added. “I also believe that Sam Roberts killed Marian’s husband as well. If you check into it, I think you’ll find that Bill Hebert’s death was under suspicious circumstances—and did I mention that Sam Roberts worked for Marian’s husband first, before he worked for Marian?”
For long moments Judith simply sat there, silently staring first at Charlotte, then at Marian, and Charlotte held her breath.
Judith abruptly stood. “You know what, ladies?” She gave each of them a pointed look. “I think I believe you—at least enough to bring Sam Roberts in for questioning.”
Charlotte released her breath in a huge sigh, and Marian dropped her head as if offering up a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Judith cleared her throat. “But Mrs. Hebert—”
Marian raised her head and looked at Judith.
“Don’t plan on leaving town any time soon.”
Charlotte stayed with Marian until the police had cleared out. “Why don’t I fix you a fresh cup of coffee?” she offered, when the last police car drove away.
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m sure you have other things to do besides wait on me.”
What Charlotte really wanted was to stay a bit longer, mostly to satisfy herself that Marian was going to be okay. “Well, I was hoping to wait around for the boys to get home anyway. I’ve been meaning to thank them for that lovely music box they gave me.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. Thanks for everything.” Marian closed the front door. “The boys should be home any minute now, and I could sure use a cup of something.” Then she gave a nervous laugh. “I’d say I could use a drink, but that’s what got me into this whole mess to begin with.”
Charlotte nodded, and knowing she could be jeopardizing her job to even suggest what was on her mind, she decided that she had to try, job or no job, for Marian’s sake as well as the welfare of Marian’s sons. “Marian, I know it’s none of my business, but have you ever considered AA?”
Marian shrugged and began walking slowly toward the kitchen. “I used to go, but I quit. Now, though—after all that’s happened—who knows, maybe now would be a good time to start up again.”
In the kitchen, while Charlotte prepared the coffeemaker, she decided she might as well broach another touchy subject while she was at it.
Marian had seated herself at the kitchen table, and Charlotte turned to face her. “Ah—Marian, I was just wondering about something. I was just wondering if there’s some way we can get around B.J. knowing that I blew the whistle on Sam. I don’t want B.J. to think that I betrayed him—you know, about the cigars,” she added, still uncomfortable about the secret she was keeping about B.J. being present on the night that Drew Bergeron was murdered.
Marian smiled. “Well, he won’t hear it from me.” She shook her head. “Poor B.J. No wonder he’s been so moody lately. I had no idea that he’d kept some of Bill’s things. That’s how out of it I’ve been since Bill died.”
Charlotte had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Marian that she’d been more out of it than she could dream when it came to B.J.
“But not anymore,” Marian added firmly. “Life’s too uncertain and too short. Bill loved our sons with all of his heart, but Bill’s gone. And I owe it to him and the boys—and myself—to get on with my life and to take care of our boys.”
“Yes,” Charlotte murmured. “Yes, you do.”
Charlotte and Marian had just taken their first sips of coffee when they heard the clatter of the boys on the back porch. Within seconds, like a whirlwind, Aaron and B.J. burst through the kitchen door.
“Did not!” Aaron yelled at his brother.
“You little brat!” B.J. yelled back. “You did too.”
“Mom! B.J. said I—”
“Zip it!” Marian ordered.
“But Mom,” Aaron whined.
Marian shook her finger at him. “I said zip it. Right now! I’m tired of this bickering and it’s going to stop.”
The astounded look on both boys’ faces was priceless, and Charlotte had to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning.
“There’s going to be some changes around here,” Marian told them in a stern, no-nonsense voice. “Some new rules, starting today, and the first rule is no more fighting. Now, both of you, show some manners and say hello to Ms. LaRue.”
When Charlotte finally decided it was time to go home a few minutes later, Marian walked her to the van. “I just wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done today,” she told Charlotte. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”
Charlotte smiled. “No thanks needed. Besides, you’re the one who called the police.”
A puzzled frown shadowed Marian’s face. “That’s just it. I didn’t—didn’t call the police, that is.”
Charlotte went stone still. “You didn’t?”
Marian shook her head. “No.”
It was Charlotte’s turn to frown. “Then how—who—”
After a moment, Marian gestured toward the house next door. “Maybe one of the neighbors?” she suggested.
Charlotte sighed, still a bit confused. “Maybe.” She paused, then finally shrugged. “Oh, well, guess it doesn’t really matter who called in the long run. The point is that someone called them and they came.”
Later that evening, Charlotte had just loaded the dirty dishes from her supper into the dishwasher when she heard a car door slam out front. Within minutes, there was a knock at the door.
“I was just thinking about calling you,” Charlotte told Judith when she opened the door. Judith came inside, and Charlotte closed the door. “Have you eaten supper yet, hon?”
Judith shook her head. “Not yet, Auntie. I just stopped by for a moment, though. I have a dinner date at seven.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “With Will?”
“No, Auntie, not with Will. That’s over.”
“Over as in you’re not partners anymore?”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Over as in we’re not lovers anymore,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve put in a request for a new partner.”
Though it was difficult, Charlotte was able to maintain a neutral expression instead of grinning from ear to ear with relief.
“Actually, I’m meeting Billy Wilson,” Judith told her.
This time Charlotte did grin. “I think that’s just wonderful. He seems like such a nice young man.”
“Yeah, right! That’s not what you said a few months ago. As I recall, I think what you said was something like, ‘Someone needs to teach him some manners.’”
“Humph, that was different,” Charlotte retorted. “That was before I got to know him a little better.” She paused. “You know, it just now occurred to me that Billy and one of my employees have the same last name. Wonder if they’re related?”
Judith shrugged. “Could be distant cousins.”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll have to ask Nadia. Anyway—” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “If I can’t feed you, would you like something to drink? Some iced tea or coffee?”
“No, thanks, Auntie. I just came by to check on you and to let you know that we’ve arrested Sam Roberts.”
“Arrested him?”
Judith nodded. “One thing led to another, and he ended up confessing to murdering Drew Bergeron. I have to tell you, though, that was the strangest interrogation I’ve ever conducted. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for us and was relieved when we finally showed up. In fact, even more strange, he seemed more concerned about Marian Hebert than his own arrest. He kept asking was she okay and were her boys okay. He even asked about Darla Shaw—asked if we’d caught her. And that was way before anyone even mentioned anything about her.” Judith shook her head. “Like I said, though, I just dropped by to tell you he’s been arrested and to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well, it’s a relief that he’s been arrested, and I’m just fine, hon. Now stop being such a worrywart, and get on out of here.” Charlotte nudged her toward the door. “Go get something to eat and—” Charlotte gave her an exaggerated wink. “Tell that nice Billy Wilson hello for me.”
Judith burst out laughing. “Okay—okay, I can take a hint.”
As Charlotte stood at the door and watched her niece drive away a few minutes later, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Judith had said in regard to Sam Roberts’ concern for Marian and the boys. And what of Darla Shaw? How had he even known that Darla Shaw was there…unless…
Just as Charlotte closed the door, she froze, her hand still on the doorknob. “Of course,” she murmured. The reason Sam knew about Darla Shaw was because he’d been there, on the porch. The movement she’d seen through the window had been Sam, not the boys. Could he also have been the person who had called the police as well? But why? If he’d been out for revenge, then why would he want to help Marian?
Charlotte locked her front door and walked over to stare out the window into the dark night. She would probably never know for sure who had called the police, but in spite of everything, she’d like to think that Sam had been the one. She’d like to think that there was some part of him able to recognize that, like him, Marian had also been an innocent victim.
Charlotte turned away from the window and stepped over to Sweety Boy’s cage. “People sure do get themselves in a mess, don’t they, Boy?”
The little parakeet pranced back and forth on his perch. “Crazy,” he chirped. “Crazy, crazy.”
“Yeah, and birds too, huh, Boy? Even little birds get themselves in a pickle sometimes.”
Judging by his looks and actions, the little bird had completely recovered from his mishap in the shower. Even so, Charlotte was still nervous and a bit gun-shy about letting him out of his cage again.
“So tell me. What do you think about Judith and Billy? Any possibilities there?”
For an answer, Sweety Boy squawked and fluffed his wings.
“Well, if you want my opinion,” Charlotte told him, “going out with Billy Wilson sure beats the heck out of having an affair with a married man.” She shook her head. “The very nerve of that—that Will Richeaux person. And him with a wife and a child.”
Charlotte turned away from Sweety Boy’s cage and walked over to the coffee table in front of the sofa. On the table was a small spray of silk flowers and the special candle that she intended placing on Hank Senior’s tomb.
She smoothed a finger over one of the red roses in the spray. All Saints’ Day was on Saturday, so on her way home from Marian’s earlier, she’d stopped off at a florist on Magazine Street.
“I should have bought candy too,” she murmured. Though there didn’t seem to be as many trick-or-treaters as there used to be in her neighborhood, she figured it was better to be prepared, just in case. Besides, she was sure that Nadia and Daniel would bring Davy by. Charlotte smiled. She’d have to pick up an extra-special treat for the little boy.
Still staring at the flowers, she thought of Hank’s offer to take her to the cemetery. Would he remember?
Chapter Twenty-six
C harlotte’s doctor appointment was scheduled for ten o’clock on Thursday morning. With dread heavily weighing down every footstep, she walked up to the front desk to let the receptionist know she was there.
The waiting room was full, with few available empty chairs. Charlotte had just seated herself and picked up a three-month-old issue of Good Housekeeping magazine when, to her surprise, her name was called.
Even more surprising, a nurse led her back to a small, well-appointed office instead of an examination room.
“The doctor should be in momentarily,” the nurse told her.
Charlotte barely had time to look around the office before the outer door opened, and the doctor walked in.
“Good morning.”
Charlotte acknowledged his greeting with a nod and a tentative smile.
After seating himself behind the desk, he opened a folder and studied it for several minutes. Then he glanced up.
“Everything looks good, Ms. LaRue. Since you don’t have a history of fainting and, according to the test results so far, you appear to be healthy for a woman your age, I really think your fainting spell was probably due more to the stress of the situation.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Charlotte muttered.
The doctor held up his hand. “But there is one more test I’d like to run.”
“What kind of test, and for what?”
“It’s a glucose tolerance test.”
Charlotte’s stomach tightened. “Isn’t that a test for diabetes?”
The doctor nodded. “Make an appointment to come in as soon as you can.” He stood. “The nurse will give you instructions.”
Diabetes. Charlotte shuddered. “Ah—excuse me, but is that really necessary?”
He shrugged. “Mostly precautionary, but the sooner you take the test, the sooner we can rule out the possibility of you having diabetes.”
The minute the doctor disappeared through the doorway, Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and placed a call to Marian Hebert. He’d said “as soon as you can,” and Charlotte figured she might as well get it over with and be done with it.
Marian’s answering machine picked up the call.
“Marian, this is Charlotte. Something’s come up, and I’ll either need to reschedule to come in on Saturday instead of tomorrow or I can send someone else out tomorrow. Just give me a call and let me know which you’d prefer.”
Charlotte disconnected the call and stood just as the nurse came in. She handed Charlotte a paper. “These are your instructions, Ms. LaRue, and an explanation of the procedure. You will need to fast—nothing to eat or drink after midnight on the night before you come in for the test.”
Charlotte nodded that she understood, and slipping the paper and her cell phone back inside her purse, she followed the nurse out of the office.
Once back out into the front office, she headed straight for the receptionist’s desk and scheduled an appointment for the next day.
It was almost noon by the time Charlotte finished running her errands and pulled into her driveway. One of her errands had been to purchase candy for Friday night. Besides a couple of bags of assorted candy, she’d bought an especially huge lollipop shaped like a pumpkin as a special treat for Davy. While picking out the candy, she’d noticed that all of the Halloween decorations had been marked down to half price. Not since Hank was a boy had she bothered decorating her porch for Halloween, so with thoughts of Davy, on a whim, she’d bought a ceramic pumpkin, a fake spider’s web, and other various creepy items to put out.
The first thing she did once she was inside was check her answering machine. There were two messages. Charlotte tapped the play button.
“Mom, about Saturday. It looks like the best time for me to take you to the cemetery is around ten. Let me know if that’s okay with you. Love you.”
The machine beeped and the second message played.
“Charlotte, this is Marian, returning your call. Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow, and I’d just as soon you wouldn’t send anyone else. Everything here is still in pretty good shape from Wednesday’s cleaning. And it’s about time those boys of mine learned how to do a few chores anyway. Just make sure you come on Monday, okay?” There was a pause, then, “Another thing, Charlotte. I went to an AA meeting last night. Just thought you might want to know. Oh, and one more thing. My attorney doesn’t seem to think I’ll have any legal problems because of everything that happened, but we’ll talk more later. Bye now.”
And the truth shall make you free. Charlotte smiled as she headed for the kitchen. It was a start. A good, positive start. Maybe now Marian could finally get on with her life and be the kind of mother her boys so desperately needed her to be.
After a quick lunch, Charlotte set about decorating the porch. The few things she’d bought didn’t take long to put out. Once she’d finished, she walked to the curb, turned, and with her hands on her hips, she stared back at the porch with a critical eye. Satisfied, she was walking back to the steps when Louis pulled into the driveway and parked.
Charlotte frowned. “Hi there, Louis. What are you doing home this time of day?”
Louis shrugged as he approached the porch. “I had some time coming, and I have some thinking to do.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened. “Sounds serious.”
“Yeah, I’d say it was pretty serious.” He seated himself on the top step and motioned for Charlotte to sit beside him. Once she was seated, for several moments he simply stared out into the street.
Finally, he cleared his throat, and still staring out into the street, he said, “I spent a good part of this morning interrogating Sam Roberts.” He shook his head. “Questioning him was a really strange experience. He cooperated fully, even seemed to be relieved that he’d been found out.”
Recalling that Judith had said the same thing, Charlotte nodded when Louis shifted his gaze to stare at her.
“He also admitted that he killed Bill Hebert,” Louis told her.
“I suspected as much.”
Louis shrugged. “Even if he hadn’t confessed, we could have still tied him to Drew Bergeron’s murder. Just this morning we finished tracing the Mardi Gras mask back to him. With DNA testing, we can also link him to the cigar found at the crime scene.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “So what’s still bothering you about it?”
Louis shoved his fingers through his hair and heaved a heavy sigh. “He had it all—reputation, a family, a position in the community—and he lost it. Lost everything. That man has spent most of his life either paying for a crime he didn’t commit or searching for a way to clear himself. According to what he said, once he got out of prison, he spent almost every penny he earned on private detectives to find out the truth about what really happened that night.
“He started out simply trying to clear his name because he didn’t want his children to think their father was a killer. But somewhere along the way, he snapped, and the lines got crossed. Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy, he became the very thing he’d been accused of—a killer. Now he has nothing but more prison and probably a death sentence to look forward to.” Louis paused, then muttered, “Such a waste of a life—of three lives if you count Drew Bergeron and Bill Hebert.”
Along with Marian Hebert, Charlotte silently added as she narrowed her eyes shrewdly. It was obvious that Sam’s fate wasn’t the only thing on Louis’ mind. Something was still bothering him. “You do think Sam’s guilty, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s guilty all right. Tell you one thing, though, the whole thing really made me stop and think, made me realize that life’s too short to waste. When you’re young, you think you have all the time in the world to do whatever. But if you’re lucky enough to grow older, you begin to realize just how little time you really have.”
He cleared his throat, and when he leveled a look at Charlotte that was tight with strain, she held her breath, wondering what was really on his mind.
“When Stephen—that’s my son—was about twelve, my wife left us,” he finally said. “She just packed a bag and walked out one day. Said she couldn’t take it anymore, what with the long hours I was keeping and all the trouble Steve kept getting into. The next thing I knew I was being served divorce papers.”
Charlotte inwardly winced. Louis’ admission explained a lot, and though she didn’t agree with his chauvinistic attitude toward women in general, at least she understood it better.
“I tried my best to raise Steve by myself after that,” he continued, “but guess I didn’t do such a bang-up job. After she left us, he went from bad to worse and was always in some kind of trouble. For the most part, since I was a cop, I was able to bail him out each time. But when he was seventeen, he and the bunch of no-good hoodlums he hung around with got all drugged up one night while I was working and robbed a liquor store. The owner of the store was killed, and though Steve swore that he didn’t pull the trigger…” Louis’ voice trailed away.
After a moment, he continued. “That was one time I couldn’t bail him out. He and his buddies were tried as adults and convicted of manslaughter. He served twenty years in Angola.” Louis shrugged. “He’s been out of prison now for about seven years. According to what I hear, he’s doing okay for himself. It was while he was in prison that he began painting, and after he got out, he married a woman who owned the art gallery that had been displaying his paintings. And they had a little girl. He now makes a living down in the Quarter with his paintings.
“That painting I have—the one of the young girl. She’s my granddaughter,” he confessed. “He sent it to me along with the others.”
“How old is your granddaughter?”
Louis shrugged. “I guess about six.”
“And you haven’t seen or spoken to your son since he got out?”
With a look of pure abject misery on his face, Louis slowly shook his head. “It’s worse than that. I—I was so angry with him when he got mixed up in that killing, so humiliated—being a cop and all—that I disowned him—cut off all relationship with him. Then, the longer it went, the harder it became to swallow my pride. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he was sent to prison twenty-seven years ago.”
“Oh, Louis.” Charlotte was horrified. She couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing, couldn’t imagine having no contact with her son for that long a time.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
The words from the Bible verse she’d once memorized popped into her head and tugged at her conscience. While it was true that she couldn’t imagine such an estrangement, to be fair, she’d never had to deal with a son convicted of murder either, she reminded herself.
“All my fault,” he continued. “All those years wasted, and even if I try to fix it now, he probably doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. I’m just afraid it’s too late.”
Charlotte reached out and squeezed his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “Maybe not. Didn’t you say that your son sent those paintings to you?”
“Yeah, about a month ago.”
“Then stop being so dense, for Pete’s sake. Can’t you see? That’s his way of reaching out to you, of trying to make amends.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug.
“So what’s the problem?”
Louis’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Would—would you go with me—I mean, if he’ll agree to seeing me, would you go along?”
“Oh, Louis, I don’t know. It’s not really my place.”
“Well, it is if I say it is,” he retorted indignantly.
On Saturday, All Saints’ Day turned out to be a warm seventy degrees with plenty of sunshine. With Hank beside her and her arms full of the flowers she’d purchased, Charlotte and her son entered Lafayette Cemetery Number One through the Washington Street entrance.
Cemeteries in New Orleans were unique. Elaborate aboveground tombs and minimausoleums had been erected out of necessity due to the high water table of the city.
Charlotte paused by the bronze plaque near the entrance. “I’m amazed each time I come here,” she told Hank. “It’s hard to believe this place has been in existence since 1833.”
Hank simply smiled at her and waited until she was ready to walk on.
Families were already crowded around the freshly whitewashed tombs that were adorned with beautiful sprays of flowers. Though respectful, an almost festive reunion-type atmosphere prevailed among the many visitors.
Hank’s father’s tomb was located not far from the entrance, down the second pathway. Charlotte knelt beside it and reverently placed the spray of flowers at the front of the tomb.
“I wish I could have known him,” Hank told her as he stared at the tomb. When he added, “Known all of them,” Charlotte realized he was referring to his father’s family as well. As was customary, Hank had been buried in the same tomb as his parents and grandparents.
Charlotte stood, then reached out and squeezed her son’s hand. “Me too, hon. Me too.”
“Tell me about him again, Mom—about all of them—like you used to when I was a little boy.”
It had been many many years since her son had asked about his father, and Charlotte’s throat was thick with emotion as she began to talk. “Your father was a lot like you—in looks and personality. He was about your height and build, with the same sandy-colored hair and sky-blue eyes.” She swallowed hard. “Each time I look at you, I see him, especially around the eyes.
“He was a kind man,” she continued, “a man who truly cared about people.” She paused for a moment, then said, “I think I must have told you that he had also wanted to be a doctor. That’s the reason he went ahead and joined the Army, even before the government began drafting for Vietnam. You see, after his parents’ deaths—your grandparents’—it took most of their assets to settle their debts. Unfortunately for your father, your grandfather didn’t believe in life insurance either, so, like you, he had to make his own way in the world.”
“Not totally like me,” Hank pointed out. “I had you helping me every step of the way.”
Charlotte smiled. “Yes, you did. Me, student loans, and that job you had as a bouncer for a while. But anyway, back when your father was in the Army, once soldiers had finished their enlistment requirements, they could go to college and the government would help pay for it. He had it all planned. He—”
“Charlotte! Charlotte LaRue!”
Recognizing Bitsy Duhe’s squeaky voice, Charlotte turned to see the older lady headed straight for them.
Hank leaned down and whispered, “Isn’t that Mrs. Duhe, one of your clients?”
Charlotte had to smile, but she nodded. “Yep, that’s her—Ms. Bitsy Duhe, in all her glory.” Charlotte was truly relieved to see that the old lady was up and about again. And what a sight to behold she was with her flowery dress billowing around her and her hat that looked like an umbrella.
“It is an umbrella,” Charlotte murmured with a giggle.
“Did you say something?” Hank asked with a frown.
Charlotte motioned toward Bitsy. “Her hat. Miss Bitsy’s hat is a miniumbrella on a headband.”
Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 02 - Death Tidies Up p.05
Chapter Twenty-one
T he minute Charlotte got home, she grabbed the telephone directory to see if Sam Roberts was listed. She’d thought about simply calling Marian to get his phone number, but she really didn’t want to do that unless she had no choice. Until she resolved her dilemma about B.J., the less contact she had with his mother, the better.
But finding Sam Roberts wasn’t going to be that easy, she soon learned. There were six S. Roberts, but no Sam Roberts listed. Charlotte called all six of the numbers, but none turned out to be the Sam Roberts she was looking for.
Next she tried Directory Assistance, but again, she hit a brick wall when she was politely told that his number was unlisted.
“Now what?” she murmured, tapping out an impatient staccato rhythm with her fingers against the desktop and wondering why on earth someone in his line of business would have an unlisted number, of all things.
Suddenly, her fingers stilled. There was no way around it, she finally decided. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to call Marian.
Charlotte reached for the Rolodex. Marian would know his phone number and would probably know where he lived as well. Once she’d found Marian’s number, she hesitated, her fingers hovering above the dial pad on the phone.
What excuse could she use for wanting to know Sam’s phone number and address? She finally decided that she could always claim that she had another client who needed some repairs done, or better yet, she could say that she needed something repaired herself.
Marian answered Charlotte’s call on the third ring. Charlotte crossed her fingers for luck. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Marian, but I need Sam Roberts’ address. You see, the other day I asked him about repairing one of my kitchen chairs, and silly me—I forgot to get his address. I’d call him, but he’s not listed in the phone directory, so I was wondering if you happen to know where he lives.”
The excuse had holes in it as big as the Grand Canyon, and Charlotte held her breath.
Evidently, Marian didn’t notice. When she began rattling off the phone number and the address, Charlotte grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled down the information.
Though Charlotte had never believed in putting off till tomorrow what she could do today, after she’d hung up the phone she sat for several moments, staring into space. Once again she weighed the pros and cons of the decision she’d made to talk to Sam.
“Just do it,” she finally muttered. Before she could change her mind, she shoved away from the desk, grabbed her purse, and marched out of the house.
The address Marian had given Charlotte was actually only a few blocks away. The house itself was also very similar in architecture to her own home and even included a small front porch and swing. The only difference was that Sam’s house was in much better repair than her house; unlike hers, his had what looked to be a fresh coat of paint.
When Charlotte approached the address, she noted that there were no vehicles in either driveway, but she reasoned that his truck could be parked around back, since the driveways on either side went all the way to the back of the house.
Did he own the double? she wondered. Or, like Louis, was he just renting one side of it?
Charlotte parked the van near the curb in front, got out, then walked slowly to the steps. Her misgivings about being there in the first place grew with each step she took as she climbed the stairs up to the porch. Reminding herself that she was doing this for B.J. was the only thing that kept her from running back to the van and driving away.
At the front door, she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed the doorbell and waited. When several moments passed and nothing happened, she rang the doorbell again.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing, she thought sarcastically as she waited. Not only had she rushed out without going to the bathroom, a chore she always took care of before leaving the house, but she hadn’t considered phoning ahead. If she’d phoned first, she could have saved herself the trouble and discomfort.
But she hadn’t phoned ahead, and as she saw it, she now had two choices: She could hang around and wait until Sam showed up, or she could leave and come back again later.
Since there was no way of telling when he might show up and she really needed a rest room anyway, Charlotte decided to leave. She also decided that before she went running off again, she’d call first next time. Turning away from the door, she crossed the porch and started back down the stairs.
While part of her was relieved that no one was home, another part of her felt the disappointment and frustration clear to her toes. Then, at the bottom of the steps, something in the grass caught her eye and Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. Just to the left side of the bottom step was an object that looked suspiciously like a ground-out cigar butt.
Paranoid, she thought, with a shake of her head. She was becoming paranoid over cigar butts, for Pete’s sake. Besides, as B.J. had so cleverly pointed out, just because it was the same brand didn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself; it could belong to anyone.
But even as she muttered, “You’re being ridiculous,” she grabbed hold of the stair rail for support and nudged the butt with the toe of her shoe. Though it was smashed flat, it did have the same odd shape as the ones beneath B.J.’s bed and the one at the Devilier house.
Charlotte was still staring at the cigar butt when the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway finally penetrated her concentration.
She glanced up and her heart began to thud when she saw Sam Roberts climb out of his battered truck. The man really needed a haircut, she thought. And he needed to trim that scraggly beard. He might not look half bad if he cleaned up a bit…
“Well, this is sure a surprise,” he called out. “What do I owe this honor to—No, wait, let me guess. You’ve finally decided to give in and let me have my wicked way with you.”
Charlotte swallowed hard and summoned up a polite little smile. “Not hardly,” she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m here because I need to talk to you.”
“Talking’s a good beginning.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “A little talk. A little—”
“About B.J.” she hastened to add. “I’m here to talk to you about B.J.,” she with emphasis.
Sam’s grin faded instantly, and for a moment, an odd expression flitted across his face. Was it hostility? Wariness? Charlotte couldn’t be sure, but almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her to wonder if once again her imagination was playing tricks on her.
“What’s he done this time?” Sam asked her, his face now serious with worry.
“Nothing, I hope,” she replied. “But that’s what we need to discuss.”
The line of his mouth tightened a fraction, but he motioned toward the front door. “Well, come on in and let’s talk then.”
Once again, misgivings about being there assailed her. Charlotte had been on her own for more years than she cared to count, and during that time, she’d learned to be cautious. There were just some things that a single woman didn’t do, and one of them was getting caught all alone in a strange house with a man she barely knew and didn’t really like in the first place.
She’d come too far to back down now, but for a moment she debated if it would be considered rude to suggest that they sit out on the porch instead. Then she thought of B.J. and the enormity of the problems facing the teenager. She finally decided that too much was at stake to quibble over where she talked to Sam. The boy’s whole future could depend on this talk.
Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and once again climbed the steps to the porch.
The inside of Sam’s home wasn’t what she’d expected at all. For one thing, it had been remodeled to include a small hallway. And like Louis’ place, it looked nothing like she had imagined a bachelor’s house would look like. No dirty clothes lying around. No unwashed dishes or scattered magazines or newspapers. It was tidy and extremely sparse. But unlike Louis’ place, there was nothing at all in the way of personal effects. No paintings, no knickknacks or books, nothing to give her even a hint as to what type of man he might be.
He motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? A Coke? Coffee? Or maybe something a little stronger?”
“No—no, thanks. Nothing for me.” She stepped over to the sofa. “But you go ahead and get whatever you’d like.”
He nodded, but as he turned and headed toward what she assumed was the kitchen, she called him back. “There is one thing, though,” she said. “I do need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.”
In a matter-of-fact way that she truly appreciated, he pointed to another doorway. “Down the hall. Second door on your left.”
Charlotte figured that the first door probably led to a bedroom, and wondering if it too was as sparse and devoid of personal effects as the living room, she slowed her steps as she approached it. Should she or shouldn’t she? Surely just a quick peek couldn’t hurt, could it?
From the doorway, Charlotte frowned as she gazed around the small room. Compared to the bedroom, the living room was cluttered, she thought, eying the even more barren, depressive room.
Like the living room, the bedroom was neat and tidy, but that was the only positive thing she could say about it.
The double-sized bed was covered with a plain cotton bedspread that had probably once been white, but now, due to either age or neglect, it had a yellowish cast to it. A little bleach and a good washing would do wonders for it, make it look almost new. Too bad she couldn’t suggest it.
Next to the bed was a cheap, rickety-looking table, just large enough to hold an equally cheap-looking lamp and an alarm clock. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small dresser, located against the wall at the foot of the bed. Except for one lone framed photograph, the dresser top was completely bare.
From where she was standing and because of the angle of the frame, she couldn’t see the photo. Again, she had to ask herself, should she or shouldn’t she?
Knowledge is power if you know it about the right person. And right now, she needed to know all she could about Sam.
Charlotte could faintly hear the sound of an ice tray being emptied, and with one ear tuned to the noises in the kitchen, she eased farther inside the bedroom. As she approached the dresser, out of the corner of her eye, she saw several packing boxes. Because the boxes were stacked on the floor along the wall that the bedroom shared with the hallway, they hadn’t been visible before. But it was the photo on the dresser, not the boxes, that interested her at the moment.
The photo was a family portrait of a man, a woman, and two little boys. From the style of the clothes they were wearing, she figured the photo was at least twenty years old. But as she examined each family member, her gaze kept returning to the man.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She’d seen him before…somewhere. But where?
Despite the fact that the man in the photo was twenty years younger and that he was trim, clean-shaven, and had dark hair, logic dictated that the man had to be Sam, and that the woman and boys had to be his family. Even so, the vast differences between the appearance of the man in the photo and the man she knew as Sam weren’t what made her question the logic of the two being the same person. Age and looks could easily alter the appearance of a person. Impossible as it seemed, what made her question the logic of the two men being the same was that she was sure she’d seen the man in the picture somewhere before, seen him looking exactly the way he appeared in the photograph. But where? And when?
Suddenly conscious of the time that had passed, Charlotte turned to leave. But as she passed the row of packing boxes, the one nearest the door caught her attention. It was packed with what looked like a lot of books, but what caught her eye was the framed certificate lying faceup on top of the stack.
Charlotte bent closer. Just as she’d thought, the certificate was a university degree, a degree from Tulane University made out to someone named Arthur Samuel. So who the devil was Arthur Samuel? The name was familiar, though she hadn’t the foggiest why at the moment. But more to the point, why would Sam have someone else’s degree?
Time…hurry…
Charlotte quickly made use of the bathroom facilities, and by the time she returned to the living room, Sam was waiting for her.
He stood up when she entered the room. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in,” he teased. “Either that or had a heart attack and croaked on my bathroom floor. But what I was really hoping for was that you decided to give me a freebie and clean it.”
Charlotte didn’t really appreciate his brand of humor, and just the thought of the filthy bathroom made her shudder. Unlike the other two rooms in the house, the bathroom was really gross. The shower was caked over with soap scum and body hair, the sink was smeared with toothpaste, and the inside of the toilet bowl was the stuff nightmares were made of.
“As you can see,” she retorted, “I didn’t fall in or die of a heart attack.”
“Guess you didn’t clean the bathroom either, huh?”
Charlotte grimaced, but chose to ignore his comment. “Now, about B.J.”
Sam shrugged and motioned toward the lone chair in the room. “Well, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk?”
Once they were both seated, Charlotte began by explaining about finding the box beneath B.J.’s bed, and she ended with what B.J. had revealed after she’d tracked him down at school.
“So you see,” she said. “For his own good, B.J. really needs to go to the police and tell them what happened, what he saw. And I was hoping that I could persuade you to talk to him, to convince him that’s the best thing to do.”
For several long moments, Sam stared at her, but nothing about the expression on his face gave her a clue as to what he was thinking.
Then, abruptly, he stood. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, he walked over to the window and gazed out into the front yard.
“B.J.’s a good kid,” he finally said. “Just mixed up. I should have encouraged him from the beginning to go to the police. Guess I didn’t because I know how brutal the police can be, especially with a boy like B.J. who’s been in so much trouble lately.”
He turned to face her. “But I see your point, and I will talk to him.”
Relief washed through Charlotte, and since she’d accomplished what she’d set out to accomplish, she stood, indicating she was ready to leave. “I appreciate it and it’s the right thing to do. When he’s ready to tell the police his story, let me know. My niece is a police detective, and contrary to your opinion of the police, she isn’t the brutal type. I’ll make sure she’s the one he talks to.”
Though Charlotte was relieved that Sam had agreed to talk to B.J. and she was confident that the teenager would listen to his friend and do the right thing, it wasn’t B.J. that filled her thoughts on the drive home.
For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she found herself preoccupied with what she’d discovered in Sam’s bedroom…the family portrait…the Tulane University degree…the strange name on the degree…
But why? Why did those things bother her, but more to the point, except for Sam’s influence on B.J., why should she even care about anything to do with Sam Roberts or his bedroom?
Chapter Twenty-two
O n Tuesday morning, Charlotte felt grumpy and out of sorts as she drove to Bitsy Duhe’s house. Not only had she slept badly, but she’d made the mistake of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage while she showered and dressed. She’d almost finished her shower when the silly parakeet had scared the daylights out of her by dive-bombing straight into the shower spray. The force of the spray had knocked him against the shower door, stunning the little bird senseless. He’d finally revived, but she was still worried about leaving him.
To make matters worse, traffic was moving slowly, and when she turned onto Magazine Street, it came to a complete standstill. Even now, as she parked in front of Bitsy’s house, she still hadn’t figured out what the holdup had been.
Most days when Charlotte cleaned Bitsy’s house, the old lady was waiting for her at the door. The fact that Bitsy wasn’t waiting didn’t concern Charlotte at first. But when she rang the doorbell and no one answered, she began to worry. Bitsy had seemed fine at the party Saturday night, but a lot could happen to an elderly lady living alone in two days. What if she’d fallen and broken a hip, or worse, what if she’d had a heart attack and died in her sleep?
Charlotte decided to knock instead of ringing the bell again, just in case the bell was on the blink. She rapped loudly. “Miss Bitsy, it’s Charlotte. Are you in there?”
Several more agonizing minutes passed; then, though faintly, Charlotte detected a noise on the other side of the door. When she recognized the sound of the security chain being unlatched, relief washed through her. When the door finally opened, her short-lived relief vanished.
“Oh, Miss Bitsy. What on earth?”
For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the elderly lady had always taken pride in her appearance and was always dressed, complete with makeup, by the crack of dawn each morning. The fact that she was still in her gown and robe would have been disturbing enough, but Charlotte could never recall seeing her look so pale and drawn.
With the limp wave of a hand, Bitsy dismissed Charlotte’s concern. “Just a bit under the weather this morning.” Her normally shrill voice was barely more than a breathless whisper and sounded far too weak to Charlotte’s ears. “Probably just a cold,” Bitsy continued. “Thanks to that awful Mrs. Jenkins. She sat behind me in church on Sunday, and if that woman sneezed once, she must have sneezed a hundred times during the service.”
Charlotte stepped through the doorway and placed an arm around the old lady’s waist. “Well, here, let’s get you back inside, out of the draft.” She nudged her back into the foyer, away from the door. “Judith told me there’s a lot of flu going around right now.” She released her hold long enough to close and lock the front door. “Did you have your flu shot yet?”
Bitsy looked at her with soulful eyes. “I kept meaning to, but what with Jenny’s visit and everything, I just never got around to it.”
Charlotte set down her supply carrier. “Well, first things first. Let’s get you back to bed, then I’ll call and see if we can get you an appointment with your doctor.”
Bitsy shook her head. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m really not up to driving to the doctor’s office and then having to sit there all morning.”
Charlotte gently ushered the old lady back toward her bedroom. “Don’t worry about that for now. Just leave it to me, okay?”
When Bitsy finally nodded, Charlotte smiled. “Now, off to bed with you.”
Once she’d made sure that Bitsy was tucked back into bed, she asked, “Have you had anything to eat this morning?”
Bitsy had already closed her eyes. “Nothing yet,” she mumbled. “Not hungry.”
“Well, you just rest for right now, and in a few minutes, I’ll bring you in a nice bowl of oatmeal and some juice.”
It was midmorning before Charlotte was finally able to speak with Bitsy’s doctor. Other than a prescription for a medication that would make her rest a bit more comfortably, he told her that essentially all that could be done was have Bitsy drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.
After determining which pharmacy Bitsy used, Charlotte left only long enough to pick up the prescription the doctor had called in. Once the old lady was resting more easily, she continued the chore of cleaning the house. But while she cleaned and alternately checked on Bitsy, Charlotte worried. In her opinion the old lady was much too ill to be left all alone.
It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte came to a decision. Whether Bitsy liked it or not, Charlotte decided that she would insist that Bitsy call her son or one of her granddaughters. She was sure they’d want to know and take steps to make sure the old lady was cared for.
Bitsy didn’t like it.
“There’s no use in calling Bradley,” the elderly lady argued. “He’d just worry and there’s nothing he can do anyway. I’ll be just fine.”
“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte argued back. “As his mother, you would want to know if he was ill, wouldn’t you?”
Bitsy nodded slowly.
“Well, why wouldn’t he want to know that you’re ill?”
“That’s different,” Bitsy quickly retorted.
“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte repeated.
“You don’t understand, Charlotte. If Bradley thinks I can’t take care of myself, he might try to force me to move out to California or even put me in one of those awful homes for old people.”
Sudden tears sprang into the old lady’s eyes, and Charlotte wanted to cry herself. “Oh, no, Miss Bitsy. He wouldn’t do that, not just because you’re temporarily sick.” But even as she spoke the words, she knew that the old lady was probably right. That was exactly what her own son might do in a similar situation. Why, he was already nagging her to retire, wasn’t he? Retire and let him take care of her. And she wasn’t nearly as old as Bitsy.
More tears ran down the old lady’s wrinkled cheeks. “Please don’t call him, Charlotte. Please,” she whispered.
Feeling more ashamed of herself with each passing moment for upsetting the old lady, Charlotte rushed over to Bitsy, and placing her arm around her shoulders, she gently hugged her. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all upset. I’m just worried about leaving you here by yourself with you being so sick. Please don’t cry.”
After a moment, Bitsy sniffed, then nodded. “I’m okay.” Then with a spunk that Charlotte had to admire, she pulled away from Charlotte and said in a shaky voice, “Tell you what. There’s an agency that provides nursing care for us old folks at home, if we need it. I think they call themselves the Special Care Agency. If you promise not to call Bradley, I promise to call Special Care and see if they can send someone out for a couple of days.”
Charlotte smiled. “I think that’s a perfect solution. And again, I apologize. It’s just that I care about you and was worried about leaving you.”
The agency Bitsy called phoned back after lunch to inform Bitsy that yes, they could send someone out right away. Even though Charlotte had almost finished cleaning the elderly lady’s house, she decided that she would wait around until the nurse arrived, just to make sure whoever the agency sent was suitable.
She had just put away the last of the dishes from the dishwasher when, out of the clear blue, like the flash of a light-bulb in a dark room, she remembered where she’d heard the name Arthur Samuel before.
Arthur Samuel was the professor Bitsy had told her about, the one who had been convicted of vehicular homicide so many years ago. Bitsy had even showed her a picture of him in her granddaughter’s yearbook.
Hoping against hope that Bitsy hadn’t got around to mailing the yearbook back to her granddaughter yet, Charlotte hurried into the living room.
The moment she entered the room she spied the book still lying on the table in front of the sofa, just where Bitsy had left it a week ago. Charlotte picked up the book, and seating herself on the sofa, she quickly thumbed through the pages until she found the particular picture she was searching for.
At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, but the more she stared at the man in the picture, the more she became convinced that Arthur Samuel, a former professor of chemistry at Tulane University, and Sam Roberts, the scruffy handyman, were one and the same person.
Charlotte was still staring at the picture when the doorbell chimed. “Probably the nurse,” she murmured.
Closing the yearbook, she stood and placed the book back on top of the table. But as she rushed off toward the foyer, a myriad of questions whirled through her mind.
Was Sam Roberts really Professor Arthur Samuel? They could be brothers instead, or even distant cousins, which would account for the remarkable resemblance. Still, if Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel were the same person, it made sense that the professor would have changed his name because of his past. His looks would have changed too. After all, he was twenty years older now. But why on earth would he want to return to New Orleans in the first place?
…she divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Kansas where she was from. If what Bitsy had said was true, why wouldn’t he have moved to Kansas to be closer to his children?
Charlotte shook her head and unlatched the security chain at the front door. Lots of reasons, she decided. His children would be grown now and might not even live in Kansas. Besides, why would he want to live near his ex-wife? She was probably married again with a completely different life.
When Charlotte opened the door and saw the person standing on the other side, she was suddenly struck speechless. All she could do was stare up at the towering giant of man.
“Hi, there. I’m René with the Special Care Agency.”
Despite his size, he wasn’t fat. Just huge. He was probably in his early thirties, she figured, and though he was dressed in typical nurse scrubs, he didn’t look like any nurse she’d ever seen. His wealth of dark hair was long, but he’d pulled it back and secured it with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. On the lobe of one ear a small diamond stud twinkled back at her, and lodged in the side of his nose was a tiny gold hoop.
Charlotte swallowed hard. “May I see some identification please?” she finally asked.
“Sure thing.” With a quick and easy grin that showed a row of even white teeth, he pulled out a billfold and produced a picture I.D. card. The card, emblazoned with the Special Care Agency logo, identified him as René Lewis, RN.
Satisfied, but still a bit leery, Charlotte nodded, then motioned for him to come inside.
“So where’s Miss Bitsy?” he asked, glancing around.
Charlotte closed the door, but something about the way he’d asked about Bitsy gave her pause. “She’s in bed. Do you know Mrs. Duhe?”
Again he produced that easy grin. “Oh, sure. She and I are old friends, and I have to tell you, I jumped at the chance to take care of her. She’s a real sweetheart and such a feisty little thing to boot.”
Though Charlotte still wasn’t completely comfortable with the young man, she couldn’t easily ignore the obvious respect and affection in his voice.
Any doubts she might have had disappeared the moment Bitsy saw René walk into the room.
“Oh, René,” she cried. “I thought that’s who I heard.” Her pale, faded face absolutely beamed with delight.
René grinned. “Now, what’s all this about, young lady? What on earth is my best girl doing all laid up in the bed sick?”
A gentle giant, Charlotte decided as she watched René bend over and plant a kiss on the top of Bitsy’s head.
“Let’s get some vital signs on you, sweetheart,” he told Bitsy. “Then you can tell me what sort of mischief you’ve been up to lately.”
By the time Charlotte was ready to leave, she was more than confident that Bitsy would be well taken care of. But just in case the old lady took a turn for the worse, Charlotte left her own name and phone number with René.
Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The old adage was so true, Charlotte decided as she pulled away from the curb in front of Bitsy’s house. But did the same principle apply to Sam Roberts? Was she misjudging him without really looking beneath the surface?
“Only one way to find out,” she murmured. And she knew just the person to ask.
Chapter Twenty-three
A s soon as she got home, Charlotte slipped off her shoes and pulled on her moccasins. She immediately headed for the telephone, then abruptly stopped and did an about-face.
“First things first,” she murmured, eyeing Sweety Boy’s cage. “Hey, there, Boy.” She approached the little bird’s cage. “You took quite a spill this morning.” She poked her forefinger through the wires to gently stroke his head. “Guess that’ll teach you that little birds don’t belong in big, bad showers, huh? You feeling better? Huh, fellow? You look a bit perkier.”
Though the little bird rubbed against her finger and seemed alert enough, the fact that he’d yet to utter a sound since she’d come through the door was worrisome.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me? Say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte. Missed you.’”
The little bird continued staring at her but remained silent. Not even a tiny chirp.
After weighing the pros and cons of letting him out of the cage, she decided that maybe it would be best for the remainder of the day if she continued to keep him confined, just until she was sure that he had fully recovered.
Had the shower incident traumatized him more than she’d thought? With a deep frown of concern and one last glance at him, she finally turned away and walked over to her desk. If he still wasn’t talking by tomorrow, she supposed she’d have to consider taking him in to the vet.
At her desk, Charlotte flipped through her Rolodex until she found the name and phone number she was looking for; then she placed her call.
Mary Johnson was the daughter of a couple whom Charlotte had once worked for over the period of several years. But Mary just happened to be a managing editor for the Times-Picayune as well. If anyone knew where she could get more information on Professor Arthur Samuel, Charlotte figured that Mary would know.
When Mary answered the call on the fourth ring, Charlotte sat down at the desk and reached for a pen and notepad.
“Hi, Mary. This is Charlotte LaRue.”
“Oh, hey there, Charlotte. It’s good to hear from you.” Then she laughed. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling to complain about another one of our reporters. And speaking of that particular rude and pesky man, you’ll be happy to know that he’s gone—moved to Houston last I heard.”
“No, hon, I’m not calling to complain. But I can’t say I’m sorry that awful man moved on.” Charlotte shuddered, remembering how the freelance reporter had tried to chase her down after he’d found out that she worked for the Dubuissons. “So how are your folks? Still enjoying their retirement?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mary told her. “What with me working all hours here at the paper and them traveling all over the country, I hardly ever see them anymore.”
“So what happened to the flea marketing and junk sales hobby they were into?”
“Well, to quote Dad, ‘It got to be too much like work.’”
Charlotte laughed. “Sounds like something he would say—but listen, I don’t want to interfere with your work, but I was hoping you could help me out with something.”
“Now, Charlotte, you know I will if I can. So—what’s up?”
Charlotte rolled the pen between her fingers. “I need to track down some background information on a man—something that happened, hmm—probably a good twenty years ago. This particular incident would have been written up in the newspaper.”
After several moments of silence, Mary answered. “Twenty years is a long time, certainly before I hired on. I’d say your best bet would be the public library. They keep stuff like past issues of newspapers on microfilm, but you need to narrow it down to a particular month or else you’ll end up wasting a whole lot of time searching through old issues.”
Charlotte frowned. “There’s no faster way?”
“Afraid not. Like I said, twenty years is a long time ago.”
Because it was fairly close to where she lived and because she really loved the historical significance of the old building, Charlotte decided to go to the Latter Library on St. Charles Avenue. During the short drive, she racked her brain, trying to think of some significant incident that might have happened around the time that the hit-and-run had occurred.
If only she could pinpoint the month…Maybe October, she finally decided, vaguely remembering something about a costume party she’d worked that particular night.
Luckily, Charlotte was able to find a parking spot on St. Charles Avenue in front of the library.
Each time she visited the Latter Library, she was conscious of its history. The turn-of-the-century house had once been the home of a wealthy New Orleans merchant, then later the home of a celebrated millionaire aviator as well as a retreat for the millionaire’s wife, a famous silent screen star. But ultimately, the final owners were a couple who’d had a son die in Okinawa during World War II. As a memorial to their son, they had presented the old house to the New Orleans Public Library.
As Charlotte hurried to the entrance, she glanced at her watch. At best, she figured she only had a couple of hours before the library closed.
Once inside, she quickly explained to the librarian what she needed. To her disappointment, she was told that she would have to go to the main library headquarters located on Loyola Avenue to do research dating back twenty years.
Though not near as old or historic as the Latter Library, the main library had its own claim to fame and had once been presented the Design Award for Public Buildings in Progressive Architecture magazine.
Once again Charlotte explained what she needed.
The librarian she spoke to, a perky young woman, directed Charlotte to go to the Louisiana Division.
“You’re in luck,” she told Charlotte with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken, we have copies of the Times-Picayune that date back as far as 1837—all on microfilm.”
After more than an hour of scanning files, Charlotte finally located the articles about the professor’s arrest and trial. One of the articles included a head shot, and again, Charlotte was struck by the resemblance between the professor and Sam Roberts.
As she scanned through the articles, she began to notice a pattern. Time after time, during his arrest, and later, during his trial, the professor was persistent in proclaiming his innocence. But other than his avowal of innocence, Charlotte didn’t learn anything that proved to be of much help.
By the time she left the library, most of the work traffic had thinned out. Her drive home was uneventful, but like a persistent itch that refused to be soothed, thoughts about the professor and Sam plagued her.
Were they the same man? Even if they were, what difference did it make in the grand scheme of things anyway? And why in the devil did the whole affair bother her so much?
B.J., she decided as she turned into her driveway. The only reason she cared at all was the friendship between Sam and the boy, and the influence that Sam seemed to wield over the teenager at such a vulnerable time in the boy’s life. To Charlotte’s way of thinking, that was more than enough reason to check up on Sam Roberts’ background.
Even after Charlotte switched off the engine, she sat staring at the garage wall. Who else could she ask? she wondered, or where else could she find out information on Sam Roberts?
Under other circumstances, she could have asked Louis or Judith. Either of them could easily check into Sam’s background. But then she’d have to tell them why she was asking, and that was something she couldn’t do…not yet.
That left only one other person who might know something about Sam, hopefully something that would put her mind at rest. Unfortunately, that person was Marian Hebert.
Since Sam had worked for Marian’s husband and now worked for Marian, Charlotte was sure that Marian would have to know something about Sam’s background…where he came from, his marital status, all the things people normally made small talk about.
With a frustrated sigh, Charlotte gathered her keys and purse and headed inside. Brick wall time, she decided as she unlocked her front door. There was just no way of asking Marian about Sam Hebert’s background without betraying B.J.’s confidence…Or was there?
On Wednesday morning, Charlotte awakened to the sounds of Sweety Boy chirping away in his cage. Though she was relieved to know that the little bird had found his voice again and a trip to the vet wouldn’t be necessary after all, not even his squawks and chirps could cheer her up after the agonizing night she’d spent tossing and turning.
Off and on, during the seemingly endless night, she’d come up with, and discarded, several ideas on how to approach Marian about Sam Roberts without betraying B.J. The most obvious way was to pretend a personal, romantic interest in Sam. But the possibility that Marian might decide to play matchmaker and tell Sam that she’d been asking about him made Charlotte discard the idea immediately.
Then, just before dawn, Charlotte had finally settled on something that she felt might work.
The scheme she’d decided on was really pretty simplistic. What she needed was an innocuous way of introducing Sam into a conversation with Marian. Since Marian had attended Tulane University, Charlotte figured she’d simply mention the fact that Bitsy’s granddaughter had just been in town for the Tulane homecoming. Then she could casually bring up the subject of the yearbook and the remarkable resemblance between Sam and the professor; thus Sam would be introduced into the conversation.
But plotting a scheme and actually implementing it were two different animals altogether. Charlotte never had been good at deception, and in fact, abhorred anything that even resembled it. She figured that just this one time, though, she had no choice. B.J. was in trouble, and his whole future might depend on what she could find out.
With a herculean effort, Charlotte finally forced herself to climb out of bed when all she wanted to do was burrow back beneath the covers and forget everything. When she reached for her housecoat, she hesitated before pulling it on. With a sigh, her gaze strayed to the closet, where she’d hung up the new one.
Fingering the worn cotton terry of the old housecoat, she frowned. Except when she’d tried on the new robe to see if it fit on the morning after her birthday party, she had yet to begin wearing it. But why?
“You know why,” she grumbled as she jerked on the old one. Silly as the notion seemed, just knowing that Louis had picked out the new one smacked of an intimacy that she wasn’t yet comfortable with, nor sure she was ready for. Never mind that each time she looked at it, she was reminded of the two kisses they’d shared…well, not exactly shared.
Rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, and with a shake of her head, she stomped off toward the living room.
Most mornings, Charlotte made a point of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage for a few minutes while she dressed. Though he appeared to be back to normal, she decided that keeping him confined a little longer would be best, just until she was sure he was okay.
“If you’re still doing okay, I promise I’ll let you out when I get home this afternoon,” she told him as she refilled his feeder with birdseed.
But Sweety Boy wanted out now, and he quickly scooted toward the cage door when she opened it to replace his cuttle-bone. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She blocked the opening with her hand. “Not this morning, fellow.” Using her forefinger, she nudged him back toward the far end of the cage. “Be a good little bird now, and I’ll clean out that yucky cage Saturday.”
By the time Charlotte left for work, the sky had clouded over and a fine drizzle had set in, making the air chilly and dreary. As she backed her van out of the driveway, she glanced toward the other driveway and frowned. Louis’ car was gone.
Thinking back, she didn’t remember seeing it last night either. Nor did she remember hearing him come home during the night. So where was he? Had he come home?
Unease crept through her veins as she drove down Milan Street. Within reason, she knew there was probably a perfectly logical explanation for why he hadn’t come home. After all, he hadn’t retired yet. He still had two months left, and in his line of work, it seemed that the criminals never slept. But logic aside, she also knew that in his line of work, there was always the possibility of danger as well. Maybe she should call Judith, just to make sure he was okay, to make sure he hadn’t been hurt or…
“And maybe you should mind your own business,” she muttered as she slowed for a traffic light. Louis was a grown man and could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.
Most of the morning, Marian was in and out of the house on business, but when she’d come home after lunch, she’d told Charlotte, “Enough is enough for one day.”
Charlotte couldn’t agree more, she finally decided an hour later as she finished up in the boys’ bathroom. Enough was enough. No more procrastination.
Except for cleaning Marian’s office, she’d almost finished for the day, and like it or not, she was running out of time. So just do it and get it over with.
Inside Marian’s office, she set her supply carrier down by the desk. Then, with deliberate steps, she marched out of the room. Once in the hallway, she paused and tilted her head, her ears tuned to any noise that might tell her in which room she’d find Marian.
The clinking of dishes led her to the kitchen, and when she entered, Marian was at the stove, pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce into a small saucepan to heat.
Marian glanced up and gave Charlotte a quick smile. “Finished already?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Almost. I still have your office to clean.” She walked to the cabinet. “I just need a drink of water.” She removed a glass from the bottom shelf. “I swear, it’s like I’ve been thirsty all day long.” She shook her head. “It was like that yesterday too, at Miss Bitsy’s house. I just couldn’t seem to get enough to drink.” She walked over to the Kentwood water dispenser stand by the cabinet and filled her glass.
“Maybe you ought to go in for a good checkup,” Marian suggested.
Charlotte took a long drink of the water, then rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that—just last week—and I’m waiting for the test results.”
Since her health was the last thing Charlotte wanted to discuss, before Marian could ask any more questions, she said, “And speaking of Miss Bitsy. You know her granddaughter—the one who lives in New York?”
“Jenny?” Marian offered.
Charlotte nodded. “That’s the one. Well, a week or so ago she was in town for the Tulane homecoming reunion.”
Though Marian looked at her a bit strangely, Charlotte plowed right on ahead. “Miss Bitsy was so excited about the visit and was brimming over with all kinds of information about all the festivities. Jenny had even brought her yearbook with her.” Feigning excitement, Charlotte widened her eyes and smiled. “And guess who I saw in it?”
When Marian raised a skeptical eyebrow, Charlotte grinned. “There you were—all of you at some party! Until I saw that picture, I had no idea that you and your husband and Drew Bergeron had all gone to Tulane together.”
Marian gave Charlotte a tiny, nervous smile. “That was a long time ago.”
Charlotte nodded. “Over twenty years, according to the date on the yearbook.” She paused a moment; then, swallowing hard, she continued. “Such a shame about what happened with that professor that year though. You know—the one who was arrested for that hit-and-run.” She frowned. “I think his name was Arthur something.” She nodded. “Oh, yeah—now I remember. His name was Arthur Samuel. He was a chemistry professor, I believe.”
Marian grimaced, and though she tried to hide her reaction by turning back to the stove to stir the spaghetti sauce, all the color had suddenly drained from her face.
Puzzled by Marian’s response, Charlotte took another quick drink of water to give herself a moment to regroup. In for a penny, in for a pound. Lifting her chin, she pressed on. “I’d completely forgotten all about it until Miss Bitsy pointed him out. But you want to know something funny? If he’d had a beard and longer hair, and if he was twenty years older, he’d look just like Sam Roberts.”
Though Charlotte wouldn’t have believed it, Marian’s face grew even more pale, and her hand began to shake. To cover the trembling, she rapped the spoon she’d been stirring with sharply against the saucepan, then laid it on the stovetop. “I need a drink,” she muttered.
“Of course they say that everyone has a double somewhere in the world,” Charlotte persisted as Marian headed straight for the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. Then, affecting a nonchalance that she didn’t feel, she said, “Probably just coincidence that they look alike, and B.J. seems to think the world of Sam.”
Marian opened the bar cabinet and took out a decanter of what looked like bourbon.
“But that’s good, don’t you think?” Charlotte continued as she watched Marian pour a healthy amount into a glass. “Good that he has a male figure he can relate to…” Charlotte’s voice trailed away as Marian downed the drink within seconds, then poured herself another one. “Marian?”
Marian shook her head. “He’s found out,” she mumbled, downing the second drink. “Oh, dear God, somehow he’s found out.”
Charlotte frowned. Marian wasn’t making sense. Of all the reactions she’d anticipated, she hadn’t expected her to fall to pieces right before her very eyes. “Marian—What on earth? What are you talking about? Found out what?”
As if she’d just remembered that Charlotte was in the room, Marian jerked around to face her, her eyes wild with terror. “He’s found out, I tell you. He’s—”
The sudden peal of the doorbell seemed to make Marian even more frantic. “No,” she cried. “Please—” She waved toward the general direction of the front door. “See who that is and make them go away.”
Charlotte held up her hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Sure—okay—no problem.” With one last worried look at the younger woman and a frown of concern, she headed for the hallway.
Marian’s reaction was way over the top, but why?
He’s found out.
What on earth had she meant and why had it made her so nervous?
Just as Charlotte reached for the doorknob, she froze.…I know how brutal the police can be…
She hadn’t thought much about Sam’s remark at the time, but suddenly his words took on a whole new meaning. “Of course,” she whispered. Why else would he make such a statement unless he’d experienced it firsthand? And if he’d experienced it firsthand, then…If it looks like a shoe and wears like a shoe, then it must be a shoe.
The doorbell chimed again, and Charlotte jumped. Later…She’d have to think about it later.
Taking a deep breath, she pasted on a polite smile and opened the door. But Charlotte’s smile faltered when she saw the bedraggled woman standing on the porch.
The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, and she was soaked through and through from the top of her stringy bleached hair down to her mud-caked loafers. Because she was wet, at first Charlotte figured her for a homeless person. But after a quick perusal of the woman’s clothes, she changed her mind. Despite the fact that the woman’s jacket, blouse, and slacks were soaked, her clothes were quality.
Suddenly the woman pulled her hand out of her jacket pocket. At the sight of the handgun, a whisper of terror twisted Charlotte’s insides, and her legs went weak.
But when the woman shoved the gun against her stomach, Charlotte gasped from the sharp pain, and the whisper of terror became a deafening roar in her ears.
T he minute Charlotte got home, she grabbed the telephone directory to see if Sam Roberts was listed. She’d thought about simply calling Marian to get his phone number, but she really didn’t want to do that unless she had no choice. Until she resolved her dilemma about B.J., the less contact she had with his mother, the better.
But finding Sam Roberts wasn’t going to be that easy, she soon learned. There were six S. Roberts, but no Sam Roberts listed. Charlotte called all six of the numbers, but none turned out to be the Sam Roberts she was looking for.
Next she tried Directory Assistance, but again, she hit a brick wall when she was politely told that his number was unlisted.
“Now what?” she murmured, tapping out an impatient staccato rhythm with her fingers against the desktop and wondering why on earth someone in his line of business would have an unlisted number, of all things.
Suddenly, her fingers stilled. There was no way around it, she finally decided. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to call Marian.
Charlotte reached for the Rolodex. Marian would know his phone number and would probably know where he lived as well. Once she’d found Marian’s number, she hesitated, her fingers hovering above the dial pad on the phone.
What excuse could she use for wanting to know Sam’s phone number and address? She finally decided that she could always claim that she had another client who needed some repairs done, or better yet, she could say that she needed something repaired herself.
Marian answered Charlotte’s call on the third ring. Charlotte crossed her fingers for luck. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Marian, but I need Sam Roberts’ address. You see, the other day I asked him about repairing one of my kitchen chairs, and silly me—I forgot to get his address. I’d call him, but he’s not listed in the phone directory, so I was wondering if you happen to know where he lives.”
The excuse had holes in it as big as the Grand Canyon, and Charlotte held her breath.
Evidently, Marian didn’t notice. When she began rattling off the phone number and the address, Charlotte grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled down the information.
Though Charlotte had never believed in putting off till tomorrow what she could do today, after she’d hung up the phone she sat for several moments, staring into space. Once again she weighed the pros and cons of the decision she’d made to talk to Sam.
“Just do it,” she finally muttered. Before she could change her mind, she shoved away from the desk, grabbed her purse, and marched out of the house.
The address Marian had given Charlotte was actually only a few blocks away. The house itself was also very similar in architecture to her own home and even included a small front porch and swing. The only difference was that Sam’s house was in much better repair than her house; unlike hers, his had what looked to be a fresh coat of paint.
When Charlotte approached the address, she noted that there were no vehicles in either driveway, but she reasoned that his truck could be parked around back, since the driveways on either side went all the way to the back of the house.
Did he own the double? she wondered. Or, like Louis, was he just renting one side of it?
Charlotte parked the van near the curb in front, got out, then walked slowly to the steps. Her misgivings about being there in the first place grew with each step she took as she climbed the stairs up to the porch. Reminding herself that she was doing this for B.J. was the only thing that kept her from running back to the van and driving away.
At the front door, she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed the doorbell and waited. When several moments passed and nothing happened, she rang the doorbell again.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing, she thought sarcastically as she waited. Not only had she rushed out without going to the bathroom, a chore she always took care of before leaving the house, but she hadn’t considered phoning ahead. If she’d phoned first, she could have saved herself the trouble and discomfort.
But she hadn’t phoned ahead, and as she saw it, she now had two choices: She could hang around and wait until Sam showed up, or she could leave and come back again later.
Since there was no way of telling when he might show up and she really needed a rest room anyway, Charlotte decided to leave. She also decided that before she went running off again, she’d call first next time. Turning away from the door, she crossed the porch and started back down the stairs.
While part of her was relieved that no one was home, another part of her felt the disappointment and frustration clear to her toes. Then, at the bottom of the steps, something in the grass caught her eye and Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. Just to the left side of the bottom step was an object that looked suspiciously like a ground-out cigar butt.
Paranoid, she thought, with a shake of her head. She was becoming paranoid over cigar butts, for Pete’s sake. Besides, as B.J. had so cleverly pointed out, just because it was the same brand didn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself; it could belong to anyone.
But even as she muttered, “You’re being ridiculous,” she grabbed hold of the stair rail for support and nudged the butt with the toe of her shoe. Though it was smashed flat, it did have the same odd shape as the ones beneath B.J.’s bed and the one at the Devilier house.
Charlotte was still staring at the cigar butt when the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway finally penetrated her concentration.
She glanced up and her heart began to thud when she saw Sam Roberts climb out of his battered truck. The man really needed a haircut, she thought. And he needed to trim that scraggly beard. He might not look half bad if he cleaned up a bit…
“Well, this is sure a surprise,” he called out. “What do I owe this honor to—No, wait, let me guess. You’ve finally decided to give in and let me have my wicked way with you.”
Charlotte swallowed hard and summoned up a polite little smile. “Not hardly,” she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m here because I need to talk to you.”
“Talking’s a good beginning.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “A little talk. A little—”
“About B.J.” she hastened to add. “I’m here to talk to you about B.J.,” she with emphasis.
Sam’s grin faded instantly, and for a moment, an odd expression flitted across his face. Was it hostility? Wariness? Charlotte couldn’t be sure, but almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her to wonder if once again her imagination was playing tricks on her.
“What’s he done this time?” Sam asked her, his face now serious with worry.
“Nothing, I hope,” she replied. “But that’s what we need to discuss.”
The line of his mouth tightened a fraction, but he motioned toward the front door. “Well, come on in and let’s talk then.”
Once again, misgivings about being there assailed her. Charlotte had been on her own for more years than she cared to count, and during that time, she’d learned to be cautious. There were just some things that a single woman didn’t do, and one of them was getting caught all alone in a strange house with a man she barely knew and didn’t really like in the first place.
She’d come too far to back down now, but for a moment she debated if it would be considered rude to suggest that they sit out on the porch instead. Then she thought of B.J. and the enormity of the problems facing the teenager. She finally decided that too much was at stake to quibble over where she talked to Sam. The boy’s whole future could depend on this talk.
Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and once again climbed the steps to the porch.
The inside of Sam’s home wasn’t what she’d expected at all. For one thing, it had been remodeled to include a small hallway. And like Louis’ place, it looked nothing like she had imagined a bachelor’s house would look like. No dirty clothes lying around. No unwashed dishes or scattered magazines or newspapers. It was tidy and extremely sparse. But unlike Louis’ place, there was nothing at all in the way of personal effects. No paintings, no knickknacks or books, nothing to give her even a hint as to what type of man he might be.
He motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? A Coke? Coffee? Or maybe something a little stronger?”
“No—no, thanks. Nothing for me.” She stepped over to the sofa. “But you go ahead and get whatever you’d like.”
He nodded, but as he turned and headed toward what she assumed was the kitchen, she called him back. “There is one thing, though,” she said. “I do need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.”
In a matter-of-fact way that she truly appreciated, he pointed to another doorway. “Down the hall. Second door on your left.”
Charlotte figured that the first door probably led to a bedroom, and wondering if it too was as sparse and devoid of personal effects as the living room, she slowed her steps as she approached it. Should she or shouldn’t she? Surely just a quick peek couldn’t hurt, could it?
From the doorway, Charlotte frowned as she gazed around the small room. Compared to the bedroom, the living room was cluttered, she thought, eying the even more barren, depressive room.
Like the living room, the bedroom was neat and tidy, but that was the only positive thing she could say about it.
The double-sized bed was covered with a plain cotton bedspread that had probably once been white, but now, due to either age or neglect, it had a yellowish cast to it. A little bleach and a good washing would do wonders for it, make it look almost new. Too bad she couldn’t suggest it.
Next to the bed was a cheap, rickety-looking table, just large enough to hold an equally cheap-looking lamp and an alarm clock. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small dresser, located against the wall at the foot of the bed. Except for one lone framed photograph, the dresser top was completely bare.
From where she was standing and because of the angle of the frame, she couldn’t see the photo. Again, she had to ask herself, should she or shouldn’t she?
Knowledge is power if you know it about the right person. And right now, she needed to know all she could about Sam.
Charlotte could faintly hear the sound of an ice tray being emptied, and with one ear tuned to the noises in the kitchen, she eased farther inside the bedroom. As she approached the dresser, out of the corner of her eye, she saw several packing boxes. Because the boxes were stacked on the floor along the wall that the bedroom shared with the hallway, they hadn’t been visible before. But it was the photo on the dresser, not the boxes, that interested her at the moment.
The photo was a family portrait of a man, a woman, and two little boys. From the style of the clothes they were wearing, she figured the photo was at least twenty years old. But as she examined each family member, her gaze kept returning to the man.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She’d seen him before…somewhere. But where?
Despite the fact that the man in the photo was twenty years younger and that he was trim, clean-shaven, and had dark hair, logic dictated that the man had to be Sam, and that the woman and boys had to be his family. Even so, the vast differences between the appearance of the man in the photo and the man she knew as Sam weren’t what made her question the logic of the two being the same person. Age and looks could easily alter the appearance of a person. Impossible as it seemed, what made her question the logic of the two men being the same was that she was sure she’d seen the man in the picture somewhere before, seen him looking exactly the way he appeared in the photograph. But where? And when?
Suddenly conscious of the time that had passed, Charlotte turned to leave. But as she passed the row of packing boxes, the one nearest the door caught her attention. It was packed with what looked like a lot of books, but what caught her eye was the framed certificate lying faceup on top of the stack.
Charlotte bent closer. Just as she’d thought, the certificate was a university degree, a degree from Tulane University made out to someone named Arthur Samuel. So who the devil was Arthur Samuel? The name was familiar, though she hadn’t the foggiest why at the moment. But more to the point, why would Sam have someone else’s degree?
Time…hurry…
Charlotte quickly made use of the bathroom facilities, and by the time she returned to the living room, Sam was waiting for her.
He stood up when she entered the room. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in,” he teased. “Either that or had a heart attack and croaked on my bathroom floor. But what I was really hoping for was that you decided to give me a freebie and clean it.”
Charlotte didn’t really appreciate his brand of humor, and just the thought of the filthy bathroom made her shudder. Unlike the other two rooms in the house, the bathroom was really gross. The shower was caked over with soap scum and body hair, the sink was smeared with toothpaste, and the inside of the toilet bowl was the stuff nightmares were made of.
“As you can see,” she retorted, “I didn’t fall in or die of a heart attack.”
“Guess you didn’t clean the bathroom either, huh?”
Charlotte grimaced, but chose to ignore his comment. “Now, about B.J.”
Sam shrugged and motioned toward the lone chair in the room. “Well, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk?”
Once they were both seated, Charlotte began by explaining about finding the box beneath B.J.’s bed, and she ended with what B.J. had revealed after she’d tracked him down at school.
“So you see,” she said. “For his own good, B.J. really needs to go to the police and tell them what happened, what he saw. And I was hoping that I could persuade you to talk to him, to convince him that’s the best thing to do.”
For several long moments, Sam stared at her, but nothing about the expression on his face gave her a clue as to what he was thinking.
Then, abruptly, he stood. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, he walked over to the window and gazed out into the front yard.
“B.J.’s a good kid,” he finally said. “Just mixed up. I should have encouraged him from the beginning to go to the police. Guess I didn’t because I know how brutal the police can be, especially with a boy like B.J. who’s been in so much trouble lately.”
He turned to face her. “But I see your point, and I will talk to him.”
Relief washed through Charlotte, and since she’d accomplished what she’d set out to accomplish, she stood, indicating she was ready to leave. “I appreciate it and it’s the right thing to do. When he’s ready to tell the police his story, let me know. My niece is a police detective, and contrary to your opinion of the police, she isn’t the brutal type. I’ll make sure she’s the one he talks to.”
Though Charlotte was relieved that Sam had agreed to talk to B.J. and she was confident that the teenager would listen to his friend and do the right thing, it wasn’t B.J. that filled her thoughts on the drive home.
For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she found herself preoccupied with what she’d discovered in Sam’s bedroom…the family portrait…the Tulane University degree…the strange name on the degree…
But why? Why did those things bother her, but more to the point, except for Sam’s influence on B.J., why should she even care about anything to do with Sam Roberts or his bedroom?
Chapter Twenty-two
O n Tuesday morning, Charlotte felt grumpy and out of sorts as she drove to Bitsy Duhe’s house. Not only had she slept badly, but she’d made the mistake of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage while she showered and dressed. She’d almost finished her shower when the silly parakeet had scared the daylights out of her by dive-bombing straight into the shower spray. The force of the spray had knocked him against the shower door, stunning the little bird senseless. He’d finally revived, but she was still worried about leaving him.
To make matters worse, traffic was moving slowly, and when she turned onto Magazine Street, it came to a complete standstill. Even now, as she parked in front of Bitsy’s house, she still hadn’t figured out what the holdup had been.
Most days when Charlotte cleaned Bitsy’s house, the old lady was waiting for her at the door. The fact that Bitsy wasn’t waiting didn’t concern Charlotte at first. But when she rang the doorbell and no one answered, she began to worry. Bitsy had seemed fine at the party Saturday night, but a lot could happen to an elderly lady living alone in two days. What if she’d fallen and broken a hip, or worse, what if she’d had a heart attack and died in her sleep?
Charlotte decided to knock instead of ringing the bell again, just in case the bell was on the blink. She rapped loudly. “Miss Bitsy, it’s Charlotte. Are you in there?”
Several more agonizing minutes passed; then, though faintly, Charlotte detected a noise on the other side of the door. When she recognized the sound of the security chain being unlatched, relief washed through her. When the door finally opened, her short-lived relief vanished.
“Oh, Miss Bitsy. What on earth?”
For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the elderly lady had always taken pride in her appearance and was always dressed, complete with makeup, by the crack of dawn each morning. The fact that she was still in her gown and robe would have been disturbing enough, but Charlotte could never recall seeing her look so pale and drawn.
With the limp wave of a hand, Bitsy dismissed Charlotte’s concern. “Just a bit under the weather this morning.” Her normally shrill voice was barely more than a breathless whisper and sounded far too weak to Charlotte’s ears. “Probably just a cold,” Bitsy continued. “Thanks to that awful Mrs. Jenkins. She sat behind me in church on Sunday, and if that woman sneezed once, she must have sneezed a hundred times during the service.”
Charlotte stepped through the doorway and placed an arm around the old lady’s waist. “Well, here, let’s get you back inside, out of the draft.” She nudged her back into the foyer, away from the door. “Judith told me there’s a lot of flu going around right now.” She released her hold long enough to close and lock the front door. “Did you have your flu shot yet?”
Bitsy looked at her with soulful eyes. “I kept meaning to, but what with Jenny’s visit and everything, I just never got around to it.”
Charlotte set down her supply carrier. “Well, first things first. Let’s get you back to bed, then I’ll call and see if we can get you an appointment with your doctor.”
Bitsy shook her head. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m really not up to driving to the doctor’s office and then having to sit there all morning.”
Charlotte gently ushered the old lady back toward her bedroom. “Don’t worry about that for now. Just leave it to me, okay?”
When Bitsy finally nodded, Charlotte smiled. “Now, off to bed with you.”
Once she’d made sure that Bitsy was tucked back into bed, she asked, “Have you had anything to eat this morning?”
Bitsy had already closed her eyes. “Nothing yet,” she mumbled. “Not hungry.”
“Well, you just rest for right now, and in a few minutes, I’ll bring you in a nice bowl of oatmeal and some juice.”
It was midmorning before Charlotte was finally able to speak with Bitsy’s doctor. Other than a prescription for a medication that would make her rest a bit more comfortably, he told her that essentially all that could be done was have Bitsy drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.
After determining which pharmacy Bitsy used, Charlotte left only long enough to pick up the prescription the doctor had called in. Once the old lady was resting more easily, she continued the chore of cleaning the house. But while she cleaned and alternately checked on Bitsy, Charlotte worried. In her opinion the old lady was much too ill to be left all alone.
It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte came to a decision. Whether Bitsy liked it or not, Charlotte decided that she would insist that Bitsy call her son or one of her granddaughters. She was sure they’d want to know and take steps to make sure the old lady was cared for.
Bitsy didn’t like it.
“There’s no use in calling Bradley,” the elderly lady argued. “He’d just worry and there’s nothing he can do anyway. I’ll be just fine.”
“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte argued back. “As his mother, you would want to know if he was ill, wouldn’t you?”
Bitsy nodded slowly.
“Well, why wouldn’t he want to know that you’re ill?”
“That’s different,” Bitsy quickly retorted.
“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte repeated.
“You don’t understand, Charlotte. If Bradley thinks I can’t take care of myself, he might try to force me to move out to California or even put me in one of those awful homes for old people.”
Sudden tears sprang into the old lady’s eyes, and Charlotte wanted to cry herself. “Oh, no, Miss Bitsy. He wouldn’t do that, not just because you’re temporarily sick.” But even as she spoke the words, she knew that the old lady was probably right. That was exactly what her own son might do in a similar situation. Why, he was already nagging her to retire, wasn’t he? Retire and let him take care of her. And she wasn’t nearly as old as Bitsy.
More tears ran down the old lady’s wrinkled cheeks. “Please don’t call him, Charlotte. Please,” she whispered.
Feeling more ashamed of herself with each passing moment for upsetting the old lady, Charlotte rushed over to Bitsy, and placing her arm around her shoulders, she gently hugged her. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all upset. I’m just worried about leaving you here by yourself with you being so sick. Please don’t cry.”
After a moment, Bitsy sniffed, then nodded. “I’m okay.” Then with a spunk that Charlotte had to admire, she pulled away from Charlotte and said in a shaky voice, “Tell you what. There’s an agency that provides nursing care for us old folks at home, if we need it. I think they call themselves the Special Care Agency. If you promise not to call Bradley, I promise to call Special Care and see if they can send someone out for a couple of days.”
Charlotte smiled. “I think that’s a perfect solution. And again, I apologize. It’s just that I care about you and was worried about leaving you.”
The agency Bitsy called phoned back after lunch to inform Bitsy that yes, they could send someone out right away. Even though Charlotte had almost finished cleaning the elderly lady’s house, she decided that she would wait around until the nurse arrived, just to make sure whoever the agency sent was suitable.
She had just put away the last of the dishes from the dishwasher when, out of the clear blue, like the flash of a light-bulb in a dark room, she remembered where she’d heard the name Arthur Samuel before.
Arthur Samuel was the professor Bitsy had told her about, the one who had been convicted of vehicular homicide so many years ago. Bitsy had even showed her a picture of him in her granddaughter’s yearbook.
Hoping against hope that Bitsy hadn’t got around to mailing the yearbook back to her granddaughter yet, Charlotte hurried into the living room.
The moment she entered the room she spied the book still lying on the table in front of the sofa, just where Bitsy had left it a week ago. Charlotte picked up the book, and seating herself on the sofa, she quickly thumbed through the pages until she found the particular picture she was searching for.
At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, but the more she stared at the man in the picture, the more she became convinced that Arthur Samuel, a former professor of chemistry at Tulane University, and Sam Roberts, the scruffy handyman, were one and the same person.
Charlotte was still staring at the picture when the doorbell chimed. “Probably the nurse,” she murmured.
Closing the yearbook, she stood and placed the book back on top of the table. But as she rushed off toward the foyer, a myriad of questions whirled through her mind.
Was Sam Roberts really Professor Arthur Samuel? They could be brothers instead, or even distant cousins, which would account for the remarkable resemblance. Still, if Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel were the same person, it made sense that the professor would have changed his name because of his past. His looks would have changed too. After all, he was twenty years older now. But why on earth would he want to return to New Orleans in the first place?
…she divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Kansas where she was from. If what Bitsy had said was true, why wouldn’t he have moved to Kansas to be closer to his children?
Charlotte shook her head and unlatched the security chain at the front door. Lots of reasons, she decided. His children would be grown now and might not even live in Kansas. Besides, why would he want to live near his ex-wife? She was probably married again with a completely different life.
When Charlotte opened the door and saw the person standing on the other side, she was suddenly struck speechless. All she could do was stare up at the towering giant of man.
“Hi, there. I’m René with the Special Care Agency.”
Despite his size, he wasn’t fat. Just huge. He was probably in his early thirties, she figured, and though he was dressed in typical nurse scrubs, he didn’t look like any nurse she’d ever seen. His wealth of dark hair was long, but he’d pulled it back and secured it with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. On the lobe of one ear a small diamond stud twinkled back at her, and lodged in the side of his nose was a tiny gold hoop.
Charlotte swallowed hard. “May I see some identification please?” she finally asked.
“Sure thing.” With a quick and easy grin that showed a row of even white teeth, he pulled out a billfold and produced a picture I.D. card. The card, emblazoned with the Special Care Agency logo, identified him as René Lewis, RN.
Satisfied, but still a bit leery, Charlotte nodded, then motioned for him to come inside.
“So where’s Miss Bitsy?” he asked, glancing around.
Charlotte closed the door, but something about the way he’d asked about Bitsy gave her pause. “She’s in bed. Do you know Mrs. Duhe?”
Again he produced that easy grin. “Oh, sure. She and I are old friends, and I have to tell you, I jumped at the chance to take care of her. She’s a real sweetheart and such a feisty little thing to boot.”
Though Charlotte still wasn’t completely comfortable with the young man, she couldn’t easily ignore the obvious respect and affection in his voice.
Any doubts she might have had disappeared the moment Bitsy saw René walk into the room.
“Oh, René,” she cried. “I thought that’s who I heard.” Her pale, faded face absolutely beamed with delight.
René grinned. “Now, what’s all this about, young lady? What on earth is my best girl doing all laid up in the bed sick?”
A gentle giant, Charlotte decided as she watched René bend over and plant a kiss on the top of Bitsy’s head.
“Let’s get some vital signs on you, sweetheart,” he told Bitsy. “Then you can tell me what sort of mischief you’ve been up to lately.”
By the time Charlotte was ready to leave, she was more than confident that Bitsy would be well taken care of. But just in case the old lady took a turn for the worse, Charlotte left her own name and phone number with René.
Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The old adage was so true, Charlotte decided as she pulled away from the curb in front of Bitsy’s house. But did the same principle apply to Sam Roberts? Was she misjudging him without really looking beneath the surface?
“Only one way to find out,” she murmured. And she knew just the person to ask.
Chapter Twenty-three
A s soon as she got home, Charlotte slipped off her shoes and pulled on her moccasins. She immediately headed for the telephone, then abruptly stopped and did an about-face.
“First things first,” she murmured, eyeing Sweety Boy’s cage. “Hey, there, Boy.” She approached the little bird’s cage. “You took quite a spill this morning.” She poked her forefinger through the wires to gently stroke his head. “Guess that’ll teach you that little birds don’t belong in big, bad showers, huh? You feeling better? Huh, fellow? You look a bit perkier.”
Though the little bird rubbed against her finger and seemed alert enough, the fact that he’d yet to utter a sound since she’d come through the door was worrisome.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me? Say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte. Missed you.’”
The little bird continued staring at her but remained silent. Not even a tiny chirp.
After weighing the pros and cons of letting him out of the cage, she decided that maybe it would be best for the remainder of the day if she continued to keep him confined, just until she was sure that he had fully recovered.
Had the shower incident traumatized him more than she’d thought? With a deep frown of concern and one last glance at him, she finally turned away and walked over to her desk. If he still wasn’t talking by tomorrow, she supposed she’d have to consider taking him in to the vet.
At her desk, Charlotte flipped through her Rolodex until she found the name and phone number she was looking for; then she placed her call.
Mary Johnson was the daughter of a couple whom Charlotte had once worked for over the period of several years. But Mary just happened to be a managing editor for the Times-Picayune as well. If anyone knew where she could get more information on Professor Arthur Samuel, Charlotte figured that Mary would know.
When Mary answered the call on the fourth ring, Charlotte sat down at the desk and reached for a pen and notepad.
“Hi, Mary. This is Charlotte LaRue.”
“Oh, hey there, Charlotte. It’s good to hear from you.” Then she laughed. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling to complain about another one of our reporters. And speaking of that particular rude and pesky man, you’ll be happy to know that he’s gone—moved to Houston last I heard.”
“No, hon, I’m not calling to complain. But I can’t say I’m sorry that awful man moved on.” Charlotte shuddered, remembering how the freelance reporter had tried to chase her down after he’d found out that she worked for the Dubuissons. “So how are your folks? Still enjoying their retirement?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mary told her. “What with me working all hours here at the paper and them traveling all over the country, I hardly ever see them anymore.”
“So what happened to the flea marketing and junk sales hobby they were into?”
“Well, to quote Dad, ‘It got to be too much like work.’”
Charlotte laughed. “Sounds like something he would say—but listen, I don’t want to interfere with your work, but I was hoping you could help me out with something.”
“Now, Charlotte, you know I will if I can. So—what’s up?”
Charlotte rolled the pen between her fingers. “I need to track down some background information on a man—something that happened, hmm—probably a good twenty years ago. This particular incident would have been written up in the newspaper.”
After several moments of silence, Mary answered. “Twenty years is a long time, certainly before I hired on. I’d say your best bet would be the public library. They keep stuff like past issues of newspapers on microfilm, but you need to narrow it down to a particular month or else you’ll end up wasting a whole lot of time searching through old issues.”
Charlotte frowned. “There’s no faster way?”
“Afraid not. Like I said, twenty years is a long time ago.”
Because it was fairly close to where she lived and because she really loved the historical significance of the old building, Charlotte decided to go to the Latter Library on St. Charles Avenue. During the short drive, she racked her brain, trying to think of some significant incident that might have happened around the time that the hit-and-run had occurred.
If only she could pinpoint the month…Maybe October, she finally decided, vaguely remembering something about a costume party she’d worked that particular night.
Luckily, Charlotte was able to find a parking spot on St. Charles Avenue in front of the library.
Each time she visited the Latter Library, she was conscious of its history. The turn-of-the-century house had once been the home of a wealthy New Orleans merchant, then later the home of a celebrated millionaire aviator as well as a retreat for the millionaire’s wife, a famous silent screen star. But ultimately, the final owners were a couple who’d had a son die in Okinawa during World War II. As a memorial to their son, they had presented the old house to the New Orleans Public Library.
As Charlotte hurried to the entrance, she glanced at her watch. At best, she figured she only had a couple of hours before the library closed.
Once inside, she quickly explained to the librarian what she needed. To her disappointment, she was told that she would have to go to the main library headquarters located on Loyola Avenue to do research dating back twenty years.
Though not near as old or historic as the Latter Library, the main library had its own claim to fame and had once been presented the Design Award for Public Buildings in Progressive Architecture magazine.
Once again Charlotte explained what she needed.
The librarian she spoke to, a perky young woman, directed Charlotte to go to the Louisiana Division.
“You’re in luck,” she told Charlotte with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken, we have copies of the Times-Picayune that date back as far as 1837—all on microfilm.”
After more than an hour of scanning files, Charlotte finally located the articles about the professor’s arrest and trial. One of the articles included a head shot, and again, Charlotte was struck by the resemblance between the professor and Sam Roberts.
As she scanned through the articles, she began to notice a pattern. Time after time, during his arrest, and later, during his trial, the professor was persistent in proclaiming his innocence. But other than his avowal of innocence, Charlotte didn’t learn anything that proved to be of much help.
By the time she left the library, most of the work traffic had thinned out. Her drive home was uneventful, but like a persistent itch that refused to be soothed, thoughts about the professor and Sam plagued her.
Were they the same man? Even if they were, what difference did it make in the grand scheme of things anyway? And why in the devil did the whole affair bother her so much?
B.J., she decided as she turned into her driveway. The only reason she cared at all was the friendship between Sam and the boy, and the influence that Sam seemed to wield over the teenager at such a vulnerable time in the boy’s life. To Charlotte’s way of thinking, that was more than enough reason to check up on Sam Roberts’ background.
Even after Charlotte switched off the engine, she sat staring at the garage wall. Who else could she ask? she wondered, or where else could she find out information on Sam Roberts?
Under other circumstances, she could have asked Louis or Judith. Either of them could easily check into Sam’s background. But then she’d have to tell them why she was asking, and that was something she couldn’t do…not yet.
That left only one other person who might know something about Sam, hopefully something that would put her mind at rest. Unfortunately, that person was Marian Hebert.
Since Sam had worked for Marian’s husband and now worked for Marian, Charlotte was sure that Marian would have to know something about Sam’s background…where he came from, his marital status, all the things people normally made small talk about.
With a frustrated sigh, Charlotte gathered her keys and purse and headed inside. Brick wall time, she decided as she unlocked her front door. There was just no way of asking Marian about Sam Hebert’s background without betraying B.J.’s confidence…Or was there?
On Wednesday morning, Charlotte awakened to the sounds of Sweety Boy chirping away in his cage. Though she was relieved to know that the little bird had found his voice again and a trip to the vet wouldn’t be necessary after all, not even his squawks and chirps could cheer her up after the agonizing night she’d spent tossing and turning.
Off and on, during the seemingly endless night, she’d come up with, and discarded, several ideas on how to approach Marian about Sam Roberts without betraying B.J. The most obvious way was to pretend a personal, romantic interest in Sam. But the possibility that Marian might decide to play matchmaker and tell Sam that she’d been asking about him made Charlotte discard the idea immediately.
Then, just before dawn, Charlotte had finally settled on something that she felt might work.
The scheme she’d decided on was really pretty simplistic. What she needed was an innocuous way of introducing Sam into a conversation with Marian. Since Marian had attended Tulane University, Charlotte figured she’d simply mention the fact that Bitsy’s granddaughter had just been in town for the Tulane homecoming. Then she could casually bring up the subject of the yearbook and the remarkable resemblance between Sam and the professor; thus Sam would be introduced into the conversation.
But plotting a scheme and actually implementing it were two different animals altogether. Charlotte never had been good at deception, and in fact, abhorred anything that even resembled it. She figured that just this one time, though, she had no choice. B.J. was in trouble, and his whole future might depend on what she could find out.
With a herculean effort, Charlotte finally forced herself to climb out of bed when all she wanted to do was burrow back beneath the covers and forget everything. When she reached for her housecoat, she hesitated before pulling it on. With a sigh, her gaze strayed to the closet, where she’d hung up the new one.
Fingering the worn cotton terry of the old housecoat, she frowned. Except when she’d tried on the new robe to see if it fit on the morning after her birthday party, she had yet to begin wearing it. But why?
“You know why,” she grumbled as she jerked on the old one. Silly as the notion seemed, just knowing that Louis had picked out the new one smacked of an intimacy that she wasn’t yet comfortable with, nor sure she was ready for. Never mind that each time she looked at it, she was reminded of the two kisses they’d shared…well, not exactly shared.
Rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, and with a shake of her head, she stomped off toward the living room.
Most mornings, Charlotte made a point of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage for a few minutes while she dressed. Though he appeared to be back to normal, she decided that keeping him confined a little longer would be best, just until she was sure he was okay.
“If you’re still doing okay, I promise I’ll let you out when I get home this afternoon,” she told him as she refilled his feeder with birdseed.
But Sweety Boy wanted out now, and he quickly scooted toward the cage door when she opened it to replace his cuttle-bone. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She blocked the opening with her hand. “Not this morning, fellow.” Using her forefinger, she nudged him back toward the far end of the cage. “Be a good little bird now, and I’ll clean out that yucky cage Saturday.”
By the time Charlotte left for work, the sky had clouded over and a fine drizzle had set in, making the air chilly and dreary. As she backed her van out of the driveway, she glanced toward the other driveway and frowned. Louis’ car was gone.
Thinking back, she didn’t remember seeing it last night either. Nor did she remember hearing him come home during the night. So where was he? Had he come home?
Unease crept through her veins as she drove down Milan Street. Within reason, she knew there was probably a perfectly logical explanation for why he hadn’t come home. After all, he hadn’t retired yet. He still had two months left, and in his line of work, it seemed that the criminals never slept. But logic aside, she also knew that in his line of work, there was always the possibility of danger as well. Maybe she should call Judith, just to make sure he was okay, to make sure he hadn’t been hurt or…
“And maybe you should mind your own business,” she muttered as she slowed for a traffic light. Louis was a grown man and could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.
Most of the morning, Marian was in and out of the house on business, but when she’d come home after lunch, she’d told Charlotte, “Enough is enough for one day.”
Charlotte couldn’t agree more, she finally decided an hour later as she finished up in the boys’ bathroom. Enough was enough. No more procrastination.
Except for cleaning Marian’s office, she’d almost finished for the day, and like it or not, she was running out of time. So just do it and get it over with.
Inside Marian’s office, she set her supply carrier down by the desk. Then, with deliberate steps, she marched out of the room. Once in the hallway, she paused and tilted her head, her ears tuned to any noise that might tell her in which room she’d find Marian.
The clinking of dishes led her to the kitchen, and when she entered, Marian was at the stove, pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce into a small saucepan to heat.
Marian glanced up and gave Charlotte a quick smile. “Finished already?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Almost. I still have your office to clean.” She walked to the cabinet. “I just need a drink of water.” She removed a glass from the bottom shelf. “I swear, it’s like I’ve been thirsty all day long.” She shook her head. “It was like that yesterday too, at Miss Bitsy’s house. I just couldn’t seem to get enough to drink.” She walked over to the Kentwood water dispenser stand by the cabinet and filled her glass.
“Maybe you ought to go in for a good checkup,” Marian suggested.
Charlotte took a long drink of the water, then rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that—just last week—and I’m waiting for the test results.”
Since her health was the last thing Charlotte wanted to discuss, before Marian could ask any more questions, she said, “And speaking of Miss Bitsy. You know her granddaughter—the one who lives in New York?”
“Jenny?” Marian offered.
Charlotte nodded. “That’s the one. Well, a week or so ago she was in town for the Tulane homecoming reunion.”
Though Marian looked at her a bit strangely, Charlotte plowed right on ahead. “Miss Bitsy was so excited about the visit and was brimming over with all kinds of information about all the festivities. Jenny had even brought her yearbook with her.” Feigning excitement, Charlotte widened her eyes and smiled. “And guess who I saw in it?”
When Marian raised a skeptical eyebrow, Charlotte grinned. “There you were—all of you at some party! Until I saw that picture, I had no idea that you and your husband and Drew Bergeron had all gone to Tulane together.”
Marian gave Charlotte a tiny, nervous smile. “That was a long time ago.”
Charlotte nodded. “Over twenty years, according to the date on the yearbook.” She paused a moment; then, swallowing hard, she continued. “Such a shame about what happened with that professor that year though. You know—the one who was arrested for that hit-and-run.” She frowned. “I think his name was Arthur something.” She nodded. “Oh, yeah—now I remember. His name was Arthur Samuel. He was a chemistry professor, I believe.”
Marian grimaced, and though she tried to hide her reaction by turning back to the stove to stir the spaghetti sauce, all the color had suddenly drained from her face.
Puzzled by Marian’s response, Charlotte took another quick drink of water to give herself a moment to regroup. In for a penny, in for a pound. Lifting her chin, she pressed on. “I’d completely forgotten all about it until Miss Bitsy pointed him out. But you want to know something funny? If he’d had a beard and longer hair, and if he was twenty years older, he’d look just like Sam Roberts.”
Though Charlotte wouldn’t have believed it, Marian’s face grew even more pale, and her hand began to shake. To cover the trembling, she rapped the spoon she’d been stirring with sharply against the saucepan, then laid it on the stovetop. “I need a drink,” she muttered.
“Of course they say that everyone has a double somewhere in the world,” Charlotte persisted as Marian headed straight for the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. Then, affecting a nonchalance that she didn’t feel, she said, “Probably just coincidence that they look alike, and B.J. seems to think the world of Sam.”
Marian opened the bar cabinet and took out a decanter of what looked like bourbon.
“But that’s good, don’t you think?” Charlotte continued as she watched Marian pour a healthy amount into a glass. “Good that he has a male figure he can relate to…” Charlotte’s voice trailed away as Marian downed the drink within seconds, then poured herself another one. “Marian?”
Marian shook her head. “He’s found out,” she mumbled, downing the second drink. “Oh, dear God, somehow he’s found out.”
Charlotte frowned. Marian wasn’t making sense. Of all the reactions she’d anticipated, she hadn’t expected her to fall to pieces right before her very eyes. “Marian—What on earth? What are you talking about? Found out what?”
As if she’d just remembered that Charlotte was in the room, Marian jerked around to face her, her eyes wild with terror. “He’s found out, I tell you. He’s—”
The sudden peal of the doorbell seemed to make Marian even more frantic. “No,” she cried. “Please—” She waved toward the general direction of the front door. “See who that is and make them go away.”
Charlotte held up her hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Sure—okay—no problem.” With one last worried look at the younger woman and a frown of concern, she headed for the hallway.
Marian’s reaction was way over the top, but why?
He’s found out.
What on earth had she meant and why had it made her so nervous?
Just as Charlotte reached for the doorknob, she froze.…I know how brutal the police can be…
She hadn’t thought much about Sam’s remark at the time, but suddenly his words took on a whole new meaning. “Of course,” she whispered. Why else would he make such a statement unless he’d experienced it firsthand? And if he’d experienced it firsthand, then…If it looks like a shoe and wears like a shoe, then it must be a shoe.
The doorbell chimed again, and Charlotte jumped. Later…She’d have to think about it later.
Taking a deep breath, she pasted on a polite smile and opened the door. But Charlotte’s smile faltered when she saw the bedraggled woman standing on the porch.
The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, and she was soaked through and through from the top of her stringy bleached hair down to her mud-caked loafers. Because she was wet, at first Charlotte figured her for a homeless person. But after a quick perusal of the woman’s clothes, she changed her mind. Despite the fact that the woman’s jacket, blouse, and slacks were soaked, her clothes were quality.
Suddenly the woman pulled her hand out of her jacket pocket. At the sight of the handgun, a whisper of terror twisted Charlotte’s insides, and her legs went weak.
But when the woman shoved the gun against her stomach, Charlotte gasped from the sharp pain, and the whisper of terror became a deafening roar in her ears.
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