Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 01 - Maid For Murder

MURDER IN THE MORNING
When the car in front of Charlotte turned off to the side street that the officer was pointing toward, Charlotte was finally able to drive her van closer. She rolled down her window, stopped, then signaled that she wanted to talk to the officer. At first, he resisted and continued motioning for her to move along. But Charlotte could be stubborn, too, and she refused to move, finally forcing the man to walk over to her van.
“Ma’am, you have to keep moving.”
“I want to know what’s happened.”
He firmly shook his head. “This is police business. You have to keep moving,” he repeated.
“But Officer, I work for the Dubuissons.” She pointed to the house. “Please, can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
The obstinate man shook his head again. “All I can tell you is there’s been a break-in and a murder.”
Charlotte gasped as the meaning of the officer’s words sank in. A break-in and a murder? At the Dubuissons?
Icy fear twisted around her heart as the faces of Jeanne, Clarice, Anna-Maria, and Jackson flashed through her mind...


Books by Barbara Colley
MAID FOR MURDER

DEATH TIDIES UP

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall, for his unfailing support, encouragement, and inspiration.
My sincere thanks and appreciation to all who gave me information and advice while I was writing this book: my editor, John Scognamiglio, my wonderful daughter-in-law, Ann-Marie Colley, my good friends and fellow writers Rexanne Becnel, Marie Goodwin, Karen Young, Meagan McKinney, and Jessica Ferguson. Their enthusiasm and encouragement have been priceless.
To O’Neil De Noux, crime writer extraordinaire, and to Officer Haynes Ragas and the Sixth District New Orleans Police Department: thank you for your generosity and for sharing your time as well as your knowledge of police procedures. Any mistakes made or liberties taken in the name of fiction are solely my own.
Last, but never least, a loving thanks to my husband, David, for everything.


Chapter One
“Nadia, it’s okay. Just calm down, hon.” Charlotte LaRue spoke softly into the telephone receiver as she interrupted the young woman’s tearful tirade. “Believe me, I understand. I really do,” she stressed. “Little Davy has to come first, and you can’t help it if he’s ill. But Nadia, dear, just this once, couldn’t Ricco take him to the doctor? I know you need the money, and this will make two days this week you’ve had to miss work.”
Charlotte drummed her fingers on the desktop while she listened to Nadia’s string of excuses why her unemployed live-in boyfriend didn’t have the time to take his own son to the doctor or stay with him that day.
With a sigh of frustration, Charlotte glanced at the clock on the wall. In spite of the clock being a silly cuckoo that she’d picked up on a whim at a flea market, it kept excellent time. And according to the time showing, she was going to be late if she didn’t leave soon.
“Hmm, I see,” Charlotte finally told Nadia, though she really didn’t understand at all. “Don’t cry, now. I’m sure things will work out. Just take care of that sweet little boy and let me know when you’re free to work again.”
Charlotte hung up the receiver and made a silent vow to have a real heart-to-heart talk with Nadia about her freeloading boyfriend. Charlotte had met Ricco Martinez on several occasions, and nothing about the man had impressed her. In Charlotte’s opinion, the only reason Ricco Martinez stayed around was for the free room and board.
She’d often wondered why Nadia continued to put up with him, but the only conclusion she’d come to was that Nadia had convinced herself she was doing it for Davy’s sake. What the younger woman didn’t realize, though, and what Charlotte knew from her own personal experience, was if a boy was given enough love and attention, he could grow up just fine without a father, especially a no-account father like Ricco.
Yes, she decided. She definitely needed to have that heart-to-heart talk with the younger woman.
Charlotte flipped through the Rolodex near the phone and finally located the phone number of Janet Davis, one of the three women Charlotte employed on a temporary basis.
Janet answered on the third ring. “This is Charlotte, Janet. I’m so glad I caught you at home. I apologize for such short notice, but I hope you’re free to work today.”
Janet said she was free, and Charlotte quickly gave her the address of the client’s home. “And Janet, Mrs. Dufore likes the ceiling fans dusted each time we clean her house. There’s a small ladder in the downstairs storage closet you can use. She’s also very particular about the shower in the master bath. Make sure you get rid of all the soap scum, especially around the drain.”
Charlotte ended the conversation, grabbed her purse, and fished out the keys to her van. “Thank God it’s Friday,” she muttered.
Satisfied that yet another crisis had been averted and with one last glance at the phone as if daring it to ring again, she headed for the front door. “Bye-bye, Sweety Boy,” she called over her shoulder. “Be a good little bird today and I’ll see you later.”
From his cage near the front window, the little parakeet’s answer was to burst into a series of chirps and whistles that made Charlotte smile as she pulled the front door firmly shut behind her, then locked it.
The small Victorian shotgun double that Charlotte lived in was located on Milan Street, just blocks away from the exclusive, historic New Orleans Garden District. The hundred-year-old double had been inherited by Charlotte and her younger sister, Madeline, after their parents’ untimely deaths, and each half included a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath.
Unlike her sister, though, who had long ago sold her half of the double to Charlotte right after her first marriage, Charlotte had never felt the urge or the need to live anywhere else.
To Charlotte, the old Victorian double was more than just the home in which she’d grown up and raised her son. The location was perfect for her thriving, sometimes hectic cleaning service, since all of her clients lived in the Garden District.
Over the years, she’d thought about branching out, expanding her business to other parts of the city, but when it came right down to it, she couldn’t imagine working anywhere else.
The old-world ambience of the Garden District, with its many huge, imposing mansions, several well over a century old, was like taking a step back in time. She loved everything about the unique neighborhood—its narrow streets and hundred-year-old moss-draped oaks that shaded them, the brick sidewalks, the formal gardens, lush with ferns, azaleas, palms, and other subtropical vegetation.
Compared to the rest of New Orleans, living near and working in the Garden District was like taking a breath of country air.


Traffic wasn’t too bad until Charlotte reached the intersection of Milan and Magazine streets. Turning left onto Magazine was always tricky under the best of circumstances at that time of morning, for there was no traffic light and most of the traffic on the right side was flowing toward downtown. To make matters worse, a large delivery van was parked on the corner, effectively blocking sight of the oncoming vehicles.
When several minutes passed and traffic hadn’t budged, Charlotte knew she was in trouble. She glanced around, looking for an alternative route, then groaned. Ordinarily, she could have taken one of the many side streets and avoided the congested area, but the closest one was blocked off by a crew from the Sewerage and Water Board, patching yet another part of the century-old underground drainage system.
In the thirty-plus years since she’d founded Maid-for-a-Day, she’d always prided herself on being thorough and punctual, something that she absolutely insisted on from the two full-time and three part-time women she employed. The one thing customers hated most besides a sloppy cleaning job was having to wait for the maid to show up. Thanks to Nadia, today looked as if it were going to be one of the rare exceptions to her rule.
Charlotte reached for her cell phone and punched out the number of her client, Jeanne Dubuisson. A bit embarrassed, she explained that she was stuck in traffic and would probably be a few minutes late.
By the time Charlotte parked her van on the street that ran alongside the nineteenth-century Greek Revival mansion belonging to the Dubuissons, she noted that even with the last-minute crisis with Nadia and the snarl of work traffic, she was only a few minutes later than normal. Not that Jeanne had any particular place to go. Certainly not to an outside job.
Jeanne St. Martin Dubuisson was wealthy in her own right, having come from an old, established New Orleans family, but Jackson, Jeanne’s husband, was also one of the city’s most prestigious attorneys. Jeanne could well afford to simply do nothing. If not for her invalid mother, she might have been tempted to join her socially prominent contemporaries who spent their days running from one luncheon to another or heading up notable charitable committees.
Charlotte preferred to use her own cleaning supplies when servicing a customer. From the back of the van, she selected the various cleaners and waxes she would need and placed them in the special carrier she used. She would have to make another trip later for the vacuum cleaner.
After locking the van, she approached the fence that fronted the Dubuissons’ house. Made of cast iron and designed in the traditional cornstalk pattern, as opposed to the simpler wrought-iron designs, the fence was typical and almost exclusive to the Garden District. Beside the latch on the double-wide gate was a buzzer that Charlotte pushed. After several minutes, the lock clicked, and she opened the gate.
There were eight steps leading up to the lower gallery that bordered three sides of the old mansion. Charlotte paused on the seventh step.
“Now that’s odd,” she murmured as she turned her head slowly from one side to the other, her eagle eyes following the trail of debris that had been tracked across the normally fastidiously clean porch. Dried leaves, grass, and dirt left a trail clear across the porch, the same type of debris that she’d swept away on Wednesday, when she’d cleaned.
Oh, well, she thought. Nothing to do but sweep it all up again. Still puzzling about the scattered debris, Charlotte jumped when the front door suddenly swung open.
“Why, Miss Anna,” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing home?”
Twenty-year-old Anna-Maria Dubuisson was willowy thin, with shoulder-length blond hair and startling green eyes, startling and exotic because of their deep emerald color, fringed by thick, sooty lashes. She was also tall, several inches taller than Charlotte’s petite height of five feet three. In the six years that Charlotte had worked for the Dubuissons, she’d watched the gangly teenager grow into one of the most beautiful young women she’d ever met.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I thought there was still another week before spring break.”
Anna-Maria flashed her a mischievous smile. “Don’t tell Mother,” she said softly, “but I skipped out. She thinks I got special permission to leave early.” She shrugged in a dismissive gesture. “I just had to come home, though. James’s father is giving a small, intimate party tomorrow night for just family and a few select friends. James thinks that’s it’s a celebration for his sister.” She lowered her voice. “It’s all hush-hush, but he’s pretty sure that Laura has been chosen as one of the maids for Rex next year, maybe even queen.” Her eyes widened. “Can you imagine being Queen of Carnival?”
James Doucet was Anna-Maria’s fiancé, and it came as no surprise to Charlotte that James’s sister might be chosen as a maid or even queen. Since James’s father, Vincent Doucet, had reigned as Rex several years back and was prominent in the Krewe of Rex, it was logical that his daughter would be in line for such an honor.
“Since I don’t have a thing to wear,” Anna-Maria continued, “I came home early to shop.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot, I’m already late. Got to run.” She laughed, and with a small flutter of her fingers, she waved as she hurried past Charlotte. “I’m meeting Laura for breakfast; then it’s shop till we drop. Oh, and by the way,” she called out, “I love your new hairstyle.”
Charlotte reached up self-consciously and smoothed back a strand of hair as she watched Anna-Maria skip down the front steps and disappear around the side of the house toward the driveway. Charlotte usually preferred a shorter, no-nonsense style, but it had been a while since she’d had time to get a haircut, and her hair had grown out longer than she normally wore it. Still, if Anna-Maria liked it a bit longer... maybe...
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. She wasn’t some silly schoolgirl who had all the time in the world to fool with fixing her hair. Shorter hair was much more practical. Besides, she should just be thankful that she didn’t have to bother with getting it colored as well as cut. She considered herself fortunate indeed that what little gray she had still blended with the honey-brown color.
Within moments, Charlotte heard the roar of a car engine come to life. When she turned back toward the door, Jeanne Dubuisson, dressed in a long silk robe and matching slippers, was standing in the doorway.
Unlike Anna-Maria, Jeanne’s eyes were blue. Otherwise, in looks, she was simply an older version of her daughter. But in temperament, whereas Anna-Maria was still outgoing and passionate about life, Jeanne possessed a quiet, ageless sophistication that could only be acquired with maturity and time.
“Good morning,” she said to Charlotte, sparing her a brief glance and polite smile. At that moment, her daughter’s bright red Bimmer Roadster shot out of the driveway and into the street. Jeanne focused a hungry gaze on the retreating sports car. “She thinks I don’t know that she’s playing hooky, and I guess I should be upset with her. It’s just that I miss her so when she’s away,” she said, her soft voice tinged with sadness. “I worry about her.”
Charlotte nodded, fully understanding the emotions Jeanne was experiencing. “It’s hard to let go,” Charlotte told her gently. “It’s been a while, but I remember well those first two years Hank went off to college. It’s almost like a part of you is missing.”
The sports car disappeared around the corner, and with a deep sigh, Jeanne turned her attention back to Charlotte. “And how is that son of yours these days? Is he still after you to retire?”
Charlotte grimaced. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard of? My goodness, I’m only fifty-nine. The way he carries on sometimes, you’d think I was a ninety-year-old invalid.”
Jeanne patted Charlotte’s arm. “You hang in there, and don’t you dare let him talk you into something you’re not ready for. Just because he’s a doctor doesn’t mean he knows everything. Besides, what on earth would I do without you?” Jeanne stood aside and motioned for Charlotte to enter the foyer.
The grand foyer of the old home was a room unto itself, and unlike the mere sixteen-foot ceilings of the other rooms in the house, the foyer soared upward the full two stories. Placed along the walls were several gilded lyre-back chairs and an Empire chaise longue upholstered in red brocade with gold trim. An antique rug, worn thin from decades of wear and all the more valuable because of its condition, covered the wooden floor.
“Today why don’t you start upstairs in Mother’s room while I serve her breakfast,” Jeanne told Charlotte as she pulled the door shut. “She’s been so grumpy lately that I thought I would serve it out on the upper gallery so she could get some fresh air and a little sunshine.”
Charlotte truly admired Jeanne as well as sympathized with her situation. Jeanne’s mother, Clarice St. Martin, had suffered a debilitating stroke just before Charlotte had begun working for the Dubuissons. Clarice could have well afforded the best nurses and round-the-clock care that money could buy, and her condition had somewhat improved over time, but Jeanne had insisted that her mother move in with her so that she could personally care for her.
Charlotte could understand why Jeanne, or any daughter, for that matter, would want to ensure that her mother had the best of care. Even so, the whole situation still seemed a bit strange, especially given their financial means, and she couldn’t help wondering if Jeanne had some kind of martyr complex.
“I already have Mother’s tray ready in the kitchen,” Jeanne said. “I won’t be but a moment.” She walked past Charlotte toward the entrance to the formal dining room that led back to the kitchen.
“Do you need some help with the tray?” Charlotte called after her.
“My goodness, no,” Jeanne answered. “Besides, you’ve already got enough to carry.”
Within moments, Jeanne reappeared with a large wicker tray. On the tray were several covered dishes, but it was the pink rose in a cut-crystal vase that caught Charlotte’s eye.
“I see you’ve already been out to the garden this morning,” she said as she followed Jeanne up the sweeping stairway. Though Charlotte knew that Jeanne hired out most of the yard work, one of the few self-indulgent activities she allowed herself was her rose garden.
“Don’t I wish I could get out in the mornings,” Jeanne answered, her tone wistful. “I really love gardening, and truly the best time is early mornings, before the dew evaporates and before it gets too hot. But lately Mother has taken to waking up so early, and what with Jackson working later, I’ve had to switch working in the garden to the evenings instead.”
The stairway opened to a central hall on the second-story level, a hall similar to the foyer on the first level and wide enough for a claw-foot settee and a pair of pillar-and-scroll mahogany tables. Connected to the central hall were four large bedroom suites, each suite containing its own private bath.
Clarice’s bedroom was the closest to the stairs. The old lady was still in bed, her television tuned to QVC, a popular shopping channel. She was dressed in her nightgown, just one of the many soft flannel granny-type gowns that she preferred to sleep in and lounge around in.
“Mother, look who’s here.” Jeanne set the tray down on the foot of the bed.
Totally ignoring Charlotte, the old lady pointed to the television screen. “Quick, Jeanne, look at that.”
Jeanne didn’t bother looking, but Charlotte glanced at the screen. A sparkling ruby-and-diamond necklace was being displayed.
“Wouldn’t that look stunning on Anna-Maria? And rubies are her birthstone.”
With an impatient shake of her head, Jeanne walked around to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers. “I don’t know why you insist on watching those shows. Now, come along. I have a special treat for you today.”
Though Clarice allowed Jeanne, to help her to the side of the bed, her expression grew hard and resentful. “How else is an old crippled woman supposed to shop?”
While Jeanne was busy assisting Clarice into a terry robe, Charlotte opened the French doors leading out onto the upper gallery.
“Besides,” Clarice continued, “with July only a couple of months away, I don’t have that long to find her a birthday present.”
Outside on the gallery, Charlotte quickly wiped the dust off the top of a small glass-topped wicker table. But even from outside, Charlotte could hear Jeanne’s exasperated sigh.
“Mother, I’ve told you that anytime you want to shop, all you have to do is agree to a wheelchair and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
When Charlotte returned for the breakfast tray, Clarice’s lower lip was protruding into a pout. “I refuse to be seen in one of those things,” she said “I’m not that crippled.”
Charlotte picked up the wicker tray and took it out to the table.
“Come along, then,” Charlotte heard Jeanne tell Clarice. “It’s such a beautiful day, I thought we could have breakfast out on the gallery.”
“I’ll get cold out there,” the old lady complained.
“No, you won’t,” Jeanne argued. “Besides, if you don’t come outside, you won’t get breakfast.”
Within moments, Charlotte heard the slide-thump of Clarice’s walker, and she quickly slipped back inside before the old lady reached the doorway.
Charlotte retrieved clean sheets and pillowcases for Clarice’s bed from the hallway linen closet. As she stripped the bed, she could hear the murmur of Jeanne’s and Clarice’s voices coming from the gallery. Clarice was complaining again, only this time she was grumbling about having oatmeal for breakfast for the third day in a row.
“I want eggs—fried eggs over easy,” she whined “And bacon—lots of bacon fried nice and crisp. Why can’t I ever have bacon?”
“Mother, you know fried foods are bad for your cholesterol.”
Once Charlotte had dusted in the bedroom, she began wiping down the sink and countertop in the bathroom. From outside, the murmurs between the two women grew louder.
Charlotte did her best to ignore what was being said. Instead, she concentrated on replacing each item on top of the counter once she’d cleaned beneath it, especially Clarice’s numerous prescription bottles. By the time she’d cleaned the toilet and started on the shower stall, the loud murmurs had turned into a shouting match that was hard to ignore.
“He’s stealing you blind!”
“Now, Mother, how could you know that?”
“Leopards don’t change their spots. That’s how I know. You mark my words, missy. He’s a no-good scoundrel, and what’s worse, he’s smart. And if you weren’t such a nambypamby, you’d see him for what he is.”
“Mother, stop it!”
“I won’t stop it. It’s time—past time—you grew a backbone. If you’d had the guts to refuse to marry him in the first place, your father might still be alive today.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.”
“Don’t you walk away from me!
“I’m not listening to any more of this.”
“Jeanne, you come back here!”
Charlotte had just finished scrubbing the scuff marks off the bathroom floor made by Clarice’s walker and was mopping the bathroom floor when Jeanne stalked across the bedroom.
At the hallway door, Jeanne hesitated, then turned toward Charlotte. Tears filled her eyes, and her voice shook with emotion. “Would you please make sure that she gets back to bed okay?”
Before Charlotte had time to answer, Jeanne fled through the doorway. Seconds later, Charlotte heard a door farther down the hall slam shut.
“Charlotte!” Clarice called out. “Are you still in there?”
Charlotte set the mop aside and hurried out onto the gallery. There she found the old lady struggling to get out of her chair. “I’m cold,” she told Charlotte. “I want to go back inside.”
“Here, let me help you.” Clarice wasn’t much bigger in size than Charlotte, but it was like lifting dead weight. As she struggled to get the old lady to a standing position, she wondered how on earth Jeanne managed day in and day out by herself.
“I swear, I don’t know what gets into that daughter of mine,” Clarice said as she aimed her walker toward the open French doors. Then, without so much as a please or thank you, she began her arduous journey back inside.
Charlotte simply shook her head and wondered yet again about the strange relationship between the two women. Why did Jeanne continue to put up with her mother’s rudeness, a rudeness that at times bordered on abuse?
By the time that Charlotte cleared off the outside table and set the tray on the floor in the hallway, Clarice was entering the bathroom. Except for vacuuming, Charlotte was finishing cleaning Clarice’s suite. Even so, she waited a few minutes before leaving the room just in case Clarice needed more help.
“Be careful, Miss Clarice,” she told her. “I just mopped that floor, and it might still be a bit damp.”
Clarice stopped, turned her head, and glared at Charlotte. “I’m not going to mess up the floor, Charlotte. I just want to rinse my teeth.”
Messing up the floor was the least of Charlotte’s concerns, but she figured trying to explain that she only feared Clarice might slip and fall wouldn’t do a bit of good. The old lady only heard what she wanted to hear.
Once Clarice was safely back in her bed, Charlotte gathered her supplies and started on the bedroom next to Clarice’s. Within the hour, she’d cleaned all of the bedrooms except the master suite. Since the door to that room was still firmly shut and she hadn’t heard Jeanne come out, she decided she would wait and clean it later.
After dusting the small tables in the hallway, Charlotte moved to the staircase. The handrail and balusters were fashioned from antique mahogany, but the steps were of oak, sanded and finished to a high gloss.
It was rumored that when the original owners of the Dubuissons’ house had built it, they had procured the handrail and balusters from a house that was reputed to have been the temporary headquarters for Andrew Jackson when he had defended New Orleans against the British. Just thinking about the historical significance of the staircase gave Charlotte a lot of pleasure, and she took a great deal of pride in the polishing and upkeep of the old wood.
From her supply carrier, she removed a bottle of lemon oil and a special cloth she used to apply the oil. She also removed a polishing cloth, which she tucked into the waistband of her slacks.
After sprinkling the first cloth with lemon oil, she rubbed it into the handrail, tediously working her way down the staircase. It was when she was working her way back up as she polished the handrail that she noticed the scuff marks on the steps, scuff marks almost identical to the kind made by Clarice’s walker.
Impossible, she thought. Even as wide as the steps were, Clarice’s walker was wider. Charlotte frowned in thought as she stared at the scuff marks. The only way they could have been made by Clarice’s walker was if the walker had been folded and dragged down the stairs, which meant that Clarice would have had to hold on to the banister for support....
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered. What on earth was wrong with her, standing there, wasting time obsessing about such a silly thing? Something else or someone’s shoes had to have caused the marks. The only time Clarice ventured down the stairs was when she had her monthly doctor’s exam. Even then, Jeanne enlisted the help of Max, a part-time chauffeur she’d hired to assist her mother.


It was almost noon by the time that Charlotte had scrubbed away the scuff marks on the stairs and cleaned and vacuumed all but the main parlor and the kitchen downstairs. She was ready to begin dusting in the parlor when she heard the clink of dishes coming from the kitchen.
Jeanne, she decided, had finally come out of her room and was preparing lunch. Once again, she had to admire the younger woman. Jeanne might be hurt or angry with her mother, but she would still take care of her needs.
Charlotte quickly gathered the supplies she needed and climbed the stairs. Now she could finally clean the master suite; then she would take her own lunch break.


By midafternoon, Charlotte was almost finished with everything but one last chore in the kitchen. As she stacked the last of the plates from the dishwasher into the butler’s pantry, Jeanne entered the kitchen.
“Charlotte, could we talk for a moment?”
“Of course.” Charlotte nodded, then closed and locked the door to the dishwasher.
Jeanne motioned for Charlotte to take a seat at the small breakfast table. But instead of seating herself, Jeanne began to pace the distance between the table and the cabinet. After a moment and a deep, steadying sigh, she finally stopped behind a chair across from where Charlotte sat. Her hands gripped the back of the chair so hard that her knuckles were white.
“I’m—I’m truly sorry about what happened earlier,” she told Charlotte in a halting voice. “I want to apologize.”
“You don’t owe me an apology,” Charlotte said gently. “I really understand. Your mother has—er—she has problems.”
Jeanne grimaced and sat down hard in the nearest chair. “Oh, Charlotte, what am I going to do about her? What Mother has is more than just problems. She’s going senile and seems to be getting worse with each passing day.”
Charlotte’s heart went out to the younger woman. “Sometimes simply talking about a situation helps,” she suggested. “At least talking seems to work for me.”
Jeanne placed her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “You’re right, I’m sure. With Anna-Maria off at school and Jackson gone most of the time, I don’t have a chance to talk to anyone much.”
Charlotte reached over and patted Jeanne’s hand. How sad, she thought. She couldn’t begin to imagine leading such an insular, lonely life. “Well, I’m here now,” Charlotte told her, “and my middle name is discretion, so you just talk all you want to.”
Jeanne seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. “She’s always making accusations about someone or something,” she blurted out. “Take for instance that stuff she was saying this morning about Jackson. Why, Jackson isn’t even home half the time, what with all of the late nights he’s been keeping at the office lately. When he is home, he stays holed up in the library. And who could blame him?”
How convenient for him, thought Charlotte. And how totally selfish. Charlotte didn’t really know Jackson Dubuisson that well, since most of the time he was at work when she cleaned. But from the different things that Jeanne had let slip over the years, Charlotte’s opinion of the man was zero on a scale of one to ten. She had often wondered how such a warm, loving woman like Jeanne could have ever married someone like him.
But if, as Jeanne pointed out, Jackson was never around, why would Clarice choose to pick on him? she wondered. Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. The old saying played through Charlotte’s mind. Over the years, Charlotte had seen the truth in the cliché more than once. “Why do you think your mother is so fixated on maligning your husband?”
Again Jeanne hesitated as a myriad of emotions played across her face. After a moment, she seemed to compose herself. “For one thing, when Jackson and I married, Father made him a full partner in the firm. Ever since, Mother has always claimed Jackson only married me to get control of the firm. She says all he cares about is money, specifically my money. But even worse, she still blames Jackson for Father’s death. Never mind that it’s been fifteen years since Father was murdered. Mother simply won’t stop harping on it.”
Murdered. Charlotte’s stomach turned queasy. “Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten that your father had been murdered.”
Even now, Charlotte only vaguely recalled the incident. At the time, though, she hadn’t paid much attention to the story or the gossip. She’d been too caught up in her own tragedy, that of trying to console her son after his wife had purposely aborted their child, her grandchild, a child Hank had wanted badly. “The murder of someone close leaves its mark on the whole family,” she murmured, still thinking about the loss she and her son had suffered. “It’s a terrible thing.”
Jeanne nodded and lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “It was terrible,” she whispered. “A burglar broke into the house, robbed the safe, then killed Father.”
Charlotte reached out and squeezed Jeanne’s arm. “Oh, you poor thing. I’m so sorry.”
Jeanne suddenly laughed, but it was a bitter sound filled with irony. “Don’t be too sorry. My father would never have won any Father of the Year Awards, and he had a cruel streak.” She shrugged. “But my mother loved him just the same, something I never understood.”
Charlotte immediately thought about Nadia’s situation with Ricco. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, “but I’ve never understood how a woman could stay with a man who was cruel or abusive. I guess love takes on many forms, but I sometimes think women confuse love with other things, things like security, or they feel trapped or feel there’s no other choice.” She shrugged. “For whatever reason,” she added.
“Yes . . . well, I figure that Mother felt she had no other choice, since my father controlled the money. Even so, she just couldn’t accept that he was gone, and she went a little crazy at the time. As if Father being murdered wasn’t enough, she made terrible accusations about Jackson to the police. You see, Jackson and Father had argued the night before . . . something about some investments Father had made using the firm’s money. But of course Jackson had an alibi the night of the murder. As usual, he was working late on an upcoming court case with his secretary. But not even that seemed to convince Mother he was innocent. Never mind that it completely satisfied the police.”
“Was the murderer ever caught?”
Jeanne shook her head. “No—No, he wasn’t. And after a while, I think the police gave up.”
Jeanne’s next words chilled Charlotte to the bone.
“My father’s murderer is still out there,” she said. “Somewhere . . .”


Chapter Two
Not even the overhang of the lower gallery was protection against the humid heat of the afternoon sun. Charlotte wiped perspiration from her brow and upper lip, then resumed sweeping away the trail of leaves, grass, and dirt that littered the ten-foot-wide porch. But the one thing she couldn’t seem to wipe away or sweep from her thoughts was Jeanne’s unsettling statement.
My father’s murderer is still out there.
Even now, despite the heat and the sweat soaking the back of her blouse, Charlotte still felt a chill, the kind that went clear to the bone. Though she knew intellectually that it was possible a person could get away with murder, she didn’t like to think that it could really happen, at least not in her safe, secure world.
Before long, however, the oppressive heat of the afternoon began to take its toll, and a cool, cleansing shower and a large glass of iced tea were all that Charlotte could think about. She should have swept the gallery earlier, when it was cooler, instead of saving it for last.
“Almost done,” she muttered as she turned the comer leading to the side gallery.
The side gallery fronted two rooms of the bottom story of the house—the front parlor and the library. Three sets of double French doors opened out onto the gallery—two sets for the parlor and one set for the library. In the days before air-conditioning, the doors were thrown open to create a draft inside the old house.
Just outside the doors of the library was a white three-piece bistro set, each piece composed of an intricately designed pattern made of cast iron. Though the table and chairs were perfectly situated for an early-morning first cup of coffee, Charlotte knew for a fact that the set was mostly for decoration.
So why had one of the chairs been moved deeper into the shade of the gallery, closer to the French doors?
Charlotte stepped closer, and for several moments she stared at the lone chair sitting sideways. How strange, she thought.
At that moment, the phone inside the library rang, and Charlotte went very still. After only two rings, someone within the house must have picked up one of the extensions, because the phone suddenly was silent again.
Growing more intrigued by the minute, Charlotte couldn’t resist the temptation to try out the chair. Once seated, she found herself privy to a perfect view of the library inside through the panes of the French door. She could see in, but she noted that because of the position of the desk inside, if someone were sitting at it, that person wouldn’t be able to see her. Not only could a person sitting in the chair hear whatever was going on inside, but that person could also see what was happening there.
What if someone was sneaking around outside on the gallery specifically for that purpose?
“Yeah, right,” she muttered, then grimaced. She was doing it again, letting her sometimes overactive imagination get the best of her, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She’d always been a sucker for a good mystery and was a huge fan of the genre. Over the years, she’d learned that reading the whodunit novels was the perfect outlet for that imagination.
A sudden loud racket gave Charlotte a start, and she jerked her head around to glare in the direction of the sound.
A lawn mower.
It was just a lousy lawn mower from the house next door. And a noisy one at that.
Of course, she thought, lowering her gaze to the trail of dirt, leaves, and cut grass and feeling a bit foolish. Just like the neighbors and most of the other homeowners in the Garden District, the Dubuissons employed a gardener to maintain their lawn and gardens. The gardener came two days a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Since the trail of debris seemed to end in front of the chair, more than likely the gardener, not some fantasy spy, was the culprit. He’d probably simply needed a place to rest and cool off.
“Big bad mystery solved,” she muttered. “The end.”
Deciding that the heat was getting to her more than she had thought and that she’d wasted enough time indulging her silly imagination, she stood and firmly repositioned the chair beneath the table, then hurriedly swept away the remaining debris.


Once back inside the house, Charlotte checked her cleaning supplies to make sure she had repacked everything. Since she had already loaded her vacuum into the van, all that remained was finding Jeanne so she could let her know she had finished.
Charlotte found her seated at a small secretary in the back parlor. Her brow creased in concentration, Jeanne was reading a paper on top of a stack of what appeared to be legal documents. Just as Charlotte stepped farther into the room, the phone on the desk rang. Charlotte didn’t like to eavesdrop on her clients, but at times, doing so was unavoidable.
From Jeanne’s side of the conversation, she learned that the caller was Jackson.
“But Jackson, this makes two nights in a row you’ve had to work late, and tonight is the Zoo To Do festivities. I thought we were going.”
Even from where Charlotte stood, it was hard to miss Jeanne’s frown of disapproval.
“Yes . . . yes... of course I understand,” Jeanne said. “I always do, whether I want to or not, don’t I?”
Sarcasm? From Jeanne? How totally out of character, thought Charlotte.
“Of course not,” Jeanne continued in a clipped tone. “You know I won’t go without you, and yes, I’ll leave the gate unlocked . . . again, but don’t expect me to keep your supper warm.”
After Jeanne hung up the receiver, Charlotte waited several moments before making her presence known. She’d seen Jeanne upset before, seen her hurt, even angry, but she’d never known her to be snide or bitchy.
Finally, Charlotte cleared her throat.
Jeanne glanced up. “Oh, Charlotte, sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Come on in.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m finished.” Charlotte walked over to the desk.
“Ohl Yes, of course. Just a second.” Jeanne turned and riffled through another stack of papers on the desk. “I know I put your check here . . . somewhere . . .” She stopped and pursed her lips in thought. Suddenly, she struck her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Now I remember. I put it away in the safe when I made out the bills.” She stood “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
While waiting for Jeanne’s return, Charlotte took a quick inventory of the room, checking for anything she might have missed while cleaning. Satisfied that all was in order, she glanced down at the stack of papers Jeanne had been concentrating on. The one on top was a mortgage of some type. Curious, Charlotte leaned closer. When she saw that it was a mortgage on a piece of property in a place called Gould, Colorado, and was made out to Jackson, she frowned.
Neither Jackson nor Jeanne skied, and as far as she knew, Jackson didn’t go in for hunting. So why would he own property in Colorado? she wondered.
She supposed that Jackson and Jeanne could have decided to take up skiing, but she didn’t recognize the town as being near any of the major resorts. More than likely, the property was simply an investment, she decided. Someone with Jackson Dubuisson’s means would have various financial investments all over.
From down the hallway, she heard the click of Jeanne’s shoes against the wooden floor. With a shrug, Charlotte stepped away from the desk. Why Jackson owned property anywhere was really none of her business.
“Here it is.” Jeanne entered the room and handed Charlotte a check. “And I’ll see you again on Monday, as usual?”
Charlotte accepted the check and nodded. “On Monday,” she confirmed.


Afternoon traffic was heavy, but not nearly as hectic as the early-morning traffic had been. Though Charlotte had worked a bit later than usual at the Dubuissons’, she figured she still had plenty of time to rest up a bit before her outing later that night.
When she let herself in the front door, she grinned as she watched Sweety Boy’s antics, designed to get her attention. The chirping little bird pranced back and forth along his perch, his wings ruffling and fluttering.
“So you missed me, did you?” she said, locking the front door behind her and setting down her purse in a chair. “Well, it’s good to know that somebody misses me when I’m gone.”
Charlotte opened the door of the birdcage and offered her forefinger. The parakeet immediately hopped on. “Say ‘I missed you, Charlotte,’” she told him in a high-pitched singsong voice. “Come on, Sweety, say it now, say ‘I missed you, Charlotte.’”
The little bird cocked his head but said nothing. Charlotte grimaced. The few times she’d given in to a weak moment and envisioned owning a pet, she thought about a cat or a dog, but never a bird. Then, six months ago, the tenants who had been renting the other side of the double skipped out, owing her two months in back rent Not only had they left the place in a shambles; they’d also left the little parakeet behind.
When she’d discovered him, he was in pitiful shape, half-starved and wheezing, with a discharge coming from his eyes and nostrils.
She’d immediately rushed him to a vet, and with antibiotics, food, and care, she’d nursed him back to health. Only recently had she decided to teach him to talk, but so far, she’d had no luck.
Charlotte repeated the same phrase four more times before finally giving up. “Come on, boy. Enough for today.” She withdrew him from the cage. “Exercise time for you.”
The moment he was free of the confines of his cage, he flew directly to her shoulder. There he pranced back and forth for several moments, his tiny claws tickling her through her blouse. Finally, he grew tired of the game and flew off toward the cuckoo clock.
The top of the clock was one of the little bird’s favorite out-of-cage perches, and Charlotte had a sneaking suspicion that the silly parakeet thought the cuckoo was a real bird. Just thinking about it always made her grin.
She was still grinning when she glanced over at her desk and saw the light on her answering machine blinking rapidly, indicating several messages. Her grin instantly dissolved into a frown, followed by a groan. Still feeling hot and sweaty from sweeping the Dubuissons’ gallery, she had hoped to have a nice refreshing shower as soon as she got home.
“Business before pleasure,” she muttered as she hit the REPLAY button.
The first message was from her son, reminding her that she’d promised to attend the annual Zoo To Do fund-raiser with him that evening. “As if I could forget,” she muttered.
Because Hank was on call at the hospital, he suggested that she meet him at the event instead of his picking her up. Then he gave her specific instructions as to where and what time to meet him.
“And Mother,” he added, “you know how dangerous it can be at night for a woman alone, so . . .”
Charlotte rolled her eyes upward toward the ceiling as she listened to her son proceed to give her a short lecture about driving at night and taking the proper safety precautions. Never mind that she’d been driving alone at night since he was in diapers, thought Charlotte.
With a shake of her head, Charlotte let out a weary sigh. Poor Hank. What was she going to do about him? Such a worrywart. And such a pain in the butt at times. First the incessant nagging about retirement and now all these highfalutin social events he insisted she attend.
She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to suspect that her beloved only child was turning into a bit of a snob. He knew better than to come right out and say so, but it was becoming increasingly evident that the great doctor was embarrassed that his mother still worked as a maid.
“How soon we forget,” she grumbled when Hank’s message ended. “Never mind that it was my maid service that helped put him through medical school.”
After Hank’s message, there were a couple of inquiries from prospective clients. Charlotte made quick notes of the names and phone numbers so she could return the calls.
The last message was from Cheré Warner, another of Charlotte’s full-time employees.
“Charlotte, you’ve got to call me back just as soon as you get home. Boy, have I got an insider tip for you on a cleaning job up for bid. It’s a short-term job for big bucks, Charlotte, so call me.”
The excitement vibrating in Cheré’s voice was hard to ignore, and after glancing at the cuckoo clock and determining that she still had plenty of time to shower and dress, Charlotte returned the call.
“I’ll be right over,” the young woman told her when she answered. “Just give me fifteen minutes.”
“No hurry.” Charlotte laughed “Take twenty minutes,” she suggested. “I need a shower.”
It took a precious five minutes to coax Sweety Boy back into his cage before Charlotte finally stepped into the shower. Even though she’d had visions of a luxurious, cool soak in the bathtub, with lots of bath oil, the quick wash she had to settle for was still refreshing.


Charlotte had just dried off from her shower and had slipped into a robe when her doorbell rang. She glanced at the cuckoo on her way to the door. Twenty minutes on the dot.
Cheré Warner was like a breath of fresh air. With her dark, bouncy hair and shining black eyes, she was a bright, energetic young woman who was working her way through college to get a business degree. Cheré was both dependable and reliable, and Charlotte felt fortunate to have her working for her. During the two years she’d been employed by Charlotte, not once had a client ever complained.
“Come in, Cheré.” Charlotte motioned for the younger woman to enter. “How about a glass of iced tea?”
Cheré grinned. “Oh, Charlotte, you know I love your iced tea. No one makes it like you do.”
A few minutes later, armed with tall glasses of iced tea, both women seated themselves on Charlotte’s sofa.
“Okay, now tell me about this insider tip.”
Cheré’s face lit up with excitement. “You know that old Devillier house on St. Charles Avenue that’s being renovated into apartments?”
Charlotte frowned. “That’s the house just down from the Pontchartrain Hotel, isn’t it?”
Cheré nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. Roussel Construction is doing the job.” She took a quick sip of tea. “Well! The construction is just about complete. All they lack are a few finishing touches. And once the city inspectors do their thing, Roussel’s will be soliciting bids for the cleanup. In fact”—Cheré was almost squirming with eagerness—“my source says that it will probably be a first-come, first-serve-type thing, that the bidding is mostly a formality, since Roussel’s is anxious to be done with this particular job.”
“Your source?” Charlotte’s right eyebrow rose a fraction, and a grin tugged at her mouth. “And just who is this source of yours, and how reliable is this information? Another one of your boyfriends?”
“Oh, Charlotte, stop teasing. And if you must know, this particular source isn’t a boyfriend... Well, not exactly—not yet.” She giggled. “Of course, if I have my way . . .”
Charlotte simply shook her head. “Cheré, Cheré, Cheré. What am I going to do with you?” But Charlotte couldn’t help laughing. Cheré had a personality that just wouldn’t quit and seemed to collect boyfriends like some people collected stamps. “So who is this new, soon-to-be boyfriend?”
The younger woman’s eyes took on a dreamy glaze. “None other than Mr. Todd Roussel, the son of Roussel Construction. He’s taking a semester off from school to learn the business.”
“I’d have to say that sounds like a pretty reliable source. Now, for the big question. What kind of money and time are we talking about?”
The more Cheré told her about the specifics involved with the job, the more interested Charlotte grew. Even as she mentally estimated the extra supplies she would need and the extra help she would have to hire, the project was still worth a great deal of money for such a short period of time; just the type of job that she needed to shore up her flagging retirement account.
It had been a good six months since she’d been able to add to the account. Every spare dime had been soaked up by yet another loan she’d had to make to her sister, Madeline, to bail her out of her latest financial disaster.
Charlotte instructed Cheré to get the name and phone number of the contact person at Roussel Construction, and after thanking the younger woman, she promised her a nice bonus if the job came through.
Once Cheré left, Charlotte quickly returned the other two messages she’d received earlier. Both potential clients sounded like good prospects. She assured the women that she could fit them in, and she promised to get back to them once she’d checked her schedule book.
After her conversations, Charlotte pulled out her schedule book. “Hmm, maybe I spoke too soon,” she murmured as she glanced over the present schedule. “At this rate, I might have to consider hiring another full-time employee.”


The Zoo To Do, always held on the first Friday night in May, was an annual event that benefited the New Orleans Audubon Zoo and raised thousands upon thousands of dollars.
Charlotte had never attended before, but she knew all about it from listening to clients who had attended over the years.
It was a black-tie gala affair held at the zoo. A ticket could cost anywhere from $155 to $195, depending on whether the person purchasing it was an Audubon member or nonmember.
For the price of a ticket, the guests could enjoy an evening of music, dining, and dancing, complete with wine, champagne, and a variety of other beverages. Charlotte had heard that the samplings of food were fantastic and were provided by well over a hundred of the finest restaurants in New Orleans. Her mouth watered at even the thought of some of the more popular dishes she’d been told to expect: bananas Foster, shrimp étouffée, turtle soup, grilled alligator sausage...
Everybody who was anybody socially attended the event, and they dressed to the hilt—men in tuxedos and women in slinky cocktail dresses.
Charlotte turned her van onto River Road, and as she drew near the intersection of Broadway, she began to grow more apprehensive with each passing minute. She hoped she’d dressed properly, since the last thing she wanted was to embarrass Hank. Nothing in her closet had come close to resembling slinky cocktail attire, and she’d settled for her old, reliable little black dress and pearls.
At the moment, however, what she was wearing was the least of her worries. The cars in front of her had slowed to almost a standstill, and she was stuck in a line of traffic that seemed to crawl forward inch by inch.
Charlotte glanced at the digital clock on her dashboard and grew even more apprehensive. She should have left earlier. Hank would have a fit if she didn’t show up on time, and she’d have to listen to him give her yet another lecture.
He’d said he was on call, but did he have his cell phone or his pager with him tonight? she wondered. Just about the time she made up her mind to try his cell phone, the traffic picked up speed, so she decided to take her chances and hope for the best.
By the time Charlotte was able to ease her van into a parking space in the huge, crowded parking lot, she’d had plenty of time to rethink her earlier concerns, and she’d calmed down somewhat. After all, in the grand scheme of things, what she was wearing was nobody’s business but her own, and if her son didn’t like the way she’d dressed or was embarrassed by it, then that was just tough. She’d never been the pretentious type, anyway, and she was too old to start now.
In the parking lot, she waited by her van for the small transportation bus Hank had told her about that was designated to take guests from their vehicles to the front gate.
The moment she stepped off the bus, she spotted her son striding purposely toward her, a look of relief on his face.
Charlotte caught her breath at the sight of him. There were times, like now, that he reminded her so much of his father that bittersweet whispers of the past tugged at her emotions and almost brought tears to her eyes.
Tall and lean, with sandy-colored hair and piercing blue eyes, he was the spitting image of his father, a man he’d never known except through Charlotte’s memories and a few pictures she’d kept.
“I was beginning to get worried,” he told her after a brief hug.
Charlotte waved her hand toward the parking lot. “Traffic,” she said by way of explanation. “And before you start,” she added, “yes, I should have left earlier. But I didn’t, and I’m here. So there.”
A slow, knowing grin tugged at Hank’s lips. “Okay, Mother. No lecture this time. And by the way, you really look lovely.”
A warm feeling spread within her, and Charlotte curtsied. “Why, thank you, kind sir. You look pretty spiffy yourself.”
Hank gave a crisp little half-bow, then held out his arm. “Now that we’ve got all of that out of the way . . .”
Charlotte laughed and tucked her arm in his.
Once inside the gate, Hank guided Charlotte toward a small group of people crowded around a nearby bar.
The crowd shifted, and Charlotte immediately recognized one of the women.
“Mother, you remember Carol, don’t you?” Hank reached out and captured the hand of the woman Charlotte had recognized.
Carol was a little taller than Charlotte. She was a slim woman with warm brown eyes, and she wore her dark shoulder-length hair in a classic page-boy style.
But it was Carol’s dress that really caught Charlotte’s eye. The knee-length dress was a deep wine color; it draped softly at the neckline and consisted of layers of iridescent chiffon over a brightly colored purple slip.
“Of course I remember Carol.” Charlotte smiled and embraced the younger woman with enthusiasm. “It’s good to see you again, dear, and I just love that dress.”
“Good to see you, too, Mrs. LaRue, and thanks. I’m so glad that Hank talked you into coming tonight.”
Charlotte winced at the “Mrs.” but didn’t bother correcting the error. “Mrs. LaRue sounds so old,” she said instead. “Please call me Charlotte.”
“Thanks, I’d like that,” Carol told her.
Charlotte had met Carol Jones only on one other occasion, a Christmas party sponsored by Hank and his partners for children confined to the hospital over the holidays. Then, as now, she’d felt immediately drawn to the younger woman. She was relieved and delighted to know that Hank was still dating her. Maybe, just maybe, Hank had finally met the right woman, she thought.
Besides being attractive, Carol had seemed to be a generous, caring woman, and Charlotte had been impressed. Unlike Mindy, Hank’s ex-wife, Carol also seemed to have a sensible, practical nature that strongly appealed to Charlotte.
Surely the fact that Hank was still seeing Carol was a good sign, she thought. At least she hoped so. For a long time after he’d divorced Mindy, she’d wondered if he would ever recover from what his ex-wife had done. It had taken him years to get to the point where he was even interested in dating again, and even then, he’d hardly ever asked a woman out more than once or twice.
Hank wasn’t getting any younger, and neither was she. If she ever hoped to have grandchildren, he needed to stop fooling around and get down to business.
A granddaughter would be nice, she thought longingly. A little girl she could cuddle and spoil. But a grandson would do just as well.
Then a horrible thought suddenly struck her. Hank’s first wife hadn’t wanted children. What if Carol felt the same way, too? Surely Hank wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.
Only one way to find out, she decided. Charlotte smiled up at her son. “Hank, honey, why don’t you get us all a nice glass of wine? Carol and I will wait right over there.” She pointed to a bench that was miraculously empty, considering the crowd of people standing around.
Hank firmly shook his head. “Oh, no, you don’t, Mother. I’m not letting you get Carol off alone to grill her.”
Charlotte feigned a hurt expression but was saved from outright lying about her intentions by Carol.
“What’s wrong, darling?” the younger woman crooned to him as she reached up and caressed his jaw. “Afraid I might learn all of your deep, dark secrets?” Then, with a saucy wink, she turned to Charlotte and took her firmly by the arm. “Come along, Charlotte. We can grill each other.” With a throaty laugh, she steered Charlotte toward the empty bench.


Two hours later, Charlotte found herself standing alone, just on the edge of the dancing area. After covering yet another yawn with her hand, she glanced at her watch. “Way past my bedtime,” she muttered. “Time to go home.”
Wondering if she’d stayed long enough to satisfy her son, she glanced around, looking for him. So where was he?
When she finally spotted him, he was among the dancers. In his arms was the lovely Carol. The band was playing a soft, dreamy song, designed especially for lovers. From the expression on Hank’s face, the last thing on his mind was the whereabouts of his mother.
As Charlotte continued watching, once again she felt the familiar tug of the past. From a distance, her son’s resemblance to his father was uncanny and more than a bit unsettling.
So why tonight? she wondered. It wasn’t as if Hank looked any different tonight than at any other time. Maybe it was the tuxedo. Though a far cry from the army uniform his father had worn, the tuxedo was still a uniform of sorts. And the music . . . the dreamy dance music, what her generation called belly-rubbing music . . .
Charlotte shook her head. “Definitely time to go home,” she murmured, pulling her gaze away in an effort to fight the onslaught of past memories, painful ones that seemed determined to intrude on this particular night.
Hank’s father, the love of her life, was gone, she firmly told herself, gone forever. And no amount of longing or wishing things were different would change that fact; it was a reality she’d had to learn to cope with the hard way.
“Charlotte? Charlotte LaRue!”
Even with the noise of chatter and music there was no mistaking the squeaky voice calling out to her or the spry, birdlike old lady headed her way.
Charlotte groaned softly. Of all the people she didn’t want to get stuck with, Bitsy Duhe headed the list. Bad enough she had to endure the old lady’s endless chatter every Tuesday, when she cleaned her house. A shameless gossip, Bitsy seemed to know something about everyone, thanks to the hours she spent on the telephone.
A sudden tug of guilt pulled at Charlotte’s conscience, and shame flooded through her for her uncharitable attitude.
Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans, and the couple had led an active social life even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, leaving her all alone except for their son and two granddaughters. But her son and granddaughters lived in other parts of the country. Bitsy was simply a lonely old lady, so desperate for human contact and companionship that she resorted to phoning around, collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.
Tuesday, Charlotte told her conscience as she quickly glanced around, seeking the best avenue of escape. I promise I’ll be more charitable on Tuesday, when I clean her house, but please, just not tonight.
For an elderly lady in her eighties, Bitsy was fast, though, and before Charlotte had taken two steps, Bitsy grabbed hold of her arm.
“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”
As usual, Bitsy’s purple-gray hair was pulled straight back, away from her face, and fashioned into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided to Charlotte that by pulling her hair back, she could smooth out the wrinkles in her forehead. And as usual, Bitsy wore one of her numerous midcalf flowered dresses.
Reminding herself that Bitsy was a client, Charlotte pasted a smile on her face. But before she could return the old lady’s greeting, Bitsy was chattering away, nonstop. With Bitsy, one never carried on a conversation. One simply listened.
“I meant to call you today,” the old lady told her, “but what with my doctor’s appointment and grocery shopping, I never got around to it. I was wondering if you could possibly come in tomorrow to clean instead of next Tuesday.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to tell the old lady that, regretfully, she had already made plans, but Bitsy kept right on talking.
“Now, Charlotte, dear, I realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and of course I would pay you extra.” She took a deep breath and smiled proudly. “You see, my granddaughter called this morning, and she’s coming for a visit—you know, she’s the one who lives in New York. And she’s flying in tomorrow evening. I really want everything to be nice and tidy for her visit, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
Again Charlotte opened her mouth to tell Bitsy she couldn’t come, but one look at the eager anticipation on the old lady’s face, along with the glow of excitement in her faded blue eyes, and she found she couldn’t do it.
“What time would you like for me to be there?” she said instead.
“Oh, my, I really hate to ask this of you, but could you possibly be there at seven instead of eight?”
Charlotte groaned inwardly but nodded her agreement.
“Wonderful!” Bitsy gushed. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you must let me buy you a drink.”
Charlotte frowned. “Buy? But I thought—”
“Yes, dear.” Bitsy snickered. “The drinks are included in the price of the ticket. I was just making a little joke.” Bitsy elbowed Charlotte. “Had you going for a second, though, didn’t I? My goodness, you’ve got to learn to lighten up or before you know it, you’ll turn into a sour old prune like me.” The old lady giggled, and Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
The last thing Charlotte wanted was to spend more time with Bitsy. What she wanted was to go home. But Bitsy latched on, and Charlotte found herself having a drink with the old lady, after all, as well as enduring another half hour of her endless chatter.
For a while, she was able to ignore most of what Bitsy said as the old lady pointed out first one person, then another one, and proceeded to regale Charlotte with the latest rumors circulating about the people she’d singled out.
Then, suddenly, Bitsy threw out a name, and all of Charlotte’s senses went on alert.
“Can you believe the nerve of that Jackson Dubuisson? Just look at them.” Bitsy shook her head. “And her a married woman. Even more scandalous, she’s his partner’s wife.” As if realizing she finally had Charlotte’s full attention, she nudged her and pointed. “Over there, just on this side of the fountain. I tell you, it’s one thing to have an affair, but to flaunt it in front of the whole city—well, I never!”
Charlotte followed Bitsy’s finger. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she spotted the couple. Just as Bitsy had said, Jackson Dubuisson was on the dance floor. Cuddled against him like a satisfied cat who had just found a bowl of cream was Sydney Marriott.
Charlotte had once worked for Sydney and knew that, in fact, Bitsy was right. Not only was Sydney a married woman, but she was married to Tony Marriott, Jackson’s law partner.
He’d lied, Charlotte thought. He’d outright lied to Jeanne about working late. While Jeanne was home, tending to her invalid mother, thinking that her husband was working, Jackson was out having a high old time.
Snippets of Jeanne’s side of the phone conversation when she’d talked to Jackson earlier began coming back to Charlotte, and she frowned. Had Jeanne suspected that Jackson was lying to her about working late? Did she suspect that he was having an affair? Even as socially insulated as she’d become, someone who was as prominent as Jeanne wasn’t totally cut off from the old-girl network. Someone along the way would have let it slip about Jackson.
Yes, Charlotte decided. Jeanne surely had to know. And if she knew, it would go a long way in explaining why she’d been so uncharacteristically sarcastic and short with him over the phone.
Suddenly, Charlotte recalled Clarice’s words from earlier that morning. . . . he’s a no good scoundrel... Maybe Clarice wasn’t quite as senile as Jeanne thought, after all.
“Oh, poor Jeanne,” Charlotte murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the couple. They were dancing so close that they seemed to blend into one; it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Humph!” Bitsy scoffed. “Poor Jeanne my foot. You better feel sorry for Sydney. Here comes that husband of hers, and he looks like he could chew nails. I know I wouldn’t want to cross him.”
Sure enough, Tony Marriott was headed straight for the dancing couple, and the murderous look on his face was enough to give Charlotte the cold shivers.