Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 01 - Maid For Murder p.05

Chapter Fourteen
“I would like to speak with Detective Judith Monroe,”
Charlotte told the woman who answered the call.
“I’ll see if she’s available, ma’am. Please hold.”
Charlotte drummed her fingers against the desktop while she waited. When the same voice came back on the line a minute later, she was told that Detective Monroe wasn’t available at the moment. “Can someone else help you, ma’am?” the woman asked.
A mental image of Louis Thibodeaux popped into Charlotte’s head, and a wave of apprehension swept through her. “No,” she blurted out. “I’ll call back again later.” She quickly hung up the phone. The very last person she wanted to talk to or have to deal with was her niece’s partner. There was just something about that man that rubbed her the wrong way.


By the time that Charlotte showered, washed and dried her hair, and dressed, it was late midmorning. Again she tried calling her niece, and again she was told that Judith wasn’t available.
She had just made up her mind that, like it or not, she was going to have to clean the birdcage, after all, when the phone rang.
“Saved by the bell,” she murmured, snatching up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day. Charlotte speaking.”
“Hi, Charlotte, this is Nadia.”
Nadia . . . Oh, no. Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and wished the ground would suddenly open up and swallow her. She’d completely forgotten to call Daniel about Ricco.
She’d intended to talk to her nephew about the matter on Sunday, but after Daniel had called to say he had a stomach virus and wouldn’t be able to come, she’d put it off.
“Charlotte? Are you still there?”
“Yes, hon,” she answered, feeling worse with each passing moment. “I’m still here, and I’m afraid I owe you a big apology.”
“Your nephew wouldn’t take Ricco’s case.” It was a flat statement, filled with disappointment.
“Ah ... well, you see, I haven’t asked him,” Charlotte told her. “Not yet, anyway. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me, though, after you hear why.”
Charlotte explained about Daniel’s illness first. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have discussed the Dubuissons’ problems with anyone, but Jackson’s death had made the news, so as she told Nadia about Jackson’s murder, she figured she wasn’t truly breaking her confidentiality code.
“Since Monday I haven’t been able to think straight with everything that’s happened,” she said when she’d finished her explanation.
The line was silent for several moments. “How awful,” Nadia finally said. “And I think I have problems. Funny thing is, I remember reading about that in the paper, but I guess I didn’t realize that the Dubuissons were your clients.”
“Yes ... well, but that’s still no excuse for me forgetting—not really. I’m so sorry, dear. Just as soon as we hang up, I promise I’ll give Daniel a call.”
True to her word, Charlotte called her nephew the moment she finished the conversation with Nadia. She was relieved when his secretary put her right through.
“Aunt Charley, what’s up?”
“First things first, hon,” she said. “We missed you Sunday. How are you feeling?”
“I missed seeing all of you, too, and I’m feeling a heck of a lot better than I did Sunday morning. I’m still a bit queasy now and then, but at least I’m no longer paying homage to the porcelain god in the bathroom.”
Charlotte burst out laughing. “Oh, Daniel, only you could make a joke about such a thing.” Even as a small boy, Daniel had been the clown of the family. Charlotte had often wondered if her nephew’s antics were his way of dealing with the hurt of his father’s abandonment. At least Daniel’s way was healthier than his sister’s, she thought. Poor Judith had bottled up all of her resentment until it had turned bitter. Resentment without a release always turned bitter. Then there was Madeline . . .
No, she decided. She wouldn’t go there. Not now, not so soon after their little confrontation. Just thinking about her sister’s obsessive behavior only made her crazy.
Daniel cleared his throat. “So, Aunt Charley, you said, ‘First things first,’ ” he said. “Other than worrying about your favorite nephew’s health, was there another reason you called?”
“I need a favor, dear. You remember Nadia Wilson, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. She’s the tall, dark-haired woman who works for you. The one with the little boy named Davy. A really nice lady, if she’s the one I’m thinking about.”
“Yes, she is a nice lady,” Charlotte agreed. Then she launched into an explanation about Ricco’s situation and Nadia’s predicament. “Such a shame,” she added when she was finished. “She really doesn’t deserve the way she’s been treated by Ricco or the police, and it’s doubly hard on her with little Davy crying for his daddy.”
“Yeah, that’s a tough one,” Daniel agreed. “You know I can’t promise anything, but you can tell Nadia that I’ll check into the matter for her. And for little Davy,” he added. “But I have to tell you, this Ricco sounds like a real loser.”
“He’s not exactly one of my favorite people,” Charlotte admitted, “but Nadia is, and I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”
“Hey, Aunt Charley, anything for you. After all, what good is having a favorite nephew if he can’t help out once in a while?”
“You won’t get an argument out of me on that one,” Charlotte quipped. “So, will I see you next Sunday?”
“You know it! I’ll be there with bells on. Now, before you hang up, why don’t you go ahead and give me Nadia’s phone number?”
Charlotte gave him the number, then hung up the receiver. Daniel was a sweetheart, and he was right. He was her favorite nephew. Never mind that he was her only nephew, she thought with a smile.
Charlotte’s smile quickly turned into a frown, and she groaned. Why hadn’t she thought to tell Daniel about his mother’s decision to start her own business? Later, she finally decided, her finger hovering above the REDIAL button on the phone. She’d call him back later, but first she needed to phone Nadia.
After a quick call to Nadia to let her know that Daniel had agreed to look into Ricco’s case, Charlotte checked the cuckoo clock and saw that it was almost noon. Daniel would more than likely be on his way out to lunch by now, she figured, so she’d have to call him later.
Charlotte glared at the phone, then eyed the birdcage. “I’m not calling the police station again,” she told Sweety Boy. “And I’m not cleaning that cage today, either. One more day won’t hurt you. But what I am going to do is track down that niece of mine.”


The Garden District was under the jurisdiction of the Sixth District New Orleans Police Department. The station, a modern, two-story maroon brick building trimmed in blue and tan, was located on the corner of Martin Luther King Boulevard and South Rampart. It was a new building and a vast improvement over the old headquarters that had been located on Felicity Street
As Charlotte pulled into the parking lot behind the station, she glanced around at the cars parked there and right away spotted a vehicle that looked like Judith’s.
Once she’d parked, she hesitated. Dropping by had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that she was actually there, she wondered about the prudence of her decision.
That Judith was busy was obvious, since she hadn’t been able to take phone calls. Maybe she shouldn’t disturb her, after all, Charlotte thought.
Checking the clock on the dashboard, she noted that it was already half past twelve. Before she could change her mind, she quickly gathered her purse and climbed out of the van.
After all, the girl had to eat, she told herself as she locked the van and hurried down the sidewalk that ran alongside the building, a smile on her lips. Surely she could take a moment to talk to her favorite aunt.
Inside the building was a large glass-fronted foyer area that contained a wall of vending machines, two closed doors, and an elevator. Since there were no signs to give directions, by a process of elimination, Charlotte chose the elevator and rode it up to the second floor. Sure enough, when she stepped out of the elevator, directly to her right was what appeared to be an information desk.
“May I help you, ma’am?” a young uniformed female officer asked.
“I’m here to see my niece, Judith Monroe. She’s a homicide detective.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Charlotte frowned. “Well, er ... no—no I don’t, but I’m sure she’ll see me.”
At that moment, a door opened near the beginning of a hallway several feet away, and Judith walked out. When she glanced Charlotte’s way and saw her aunt, a puzzled look crossed her face.
“Aunt Charley?” She approached Charlotte. “What are you doing here?”
“I could say I just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop in and say hello, but that would be a lie. I tried calling you”—she shrugged—“but never could get through, so since it was lunchtime, I—” Charlotte looked around and noted that several officers were watching the two of them and listening to their conversation. “Could we talk somewhere a little more private?” she suggested.
“Will this take long? I’m really, really, snowed under here.”
“It’s about your mother.”
When Judith’s eyes widened with alarm, Charlotte felt an immediate stab of guilt.
“Is she okay? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”
Charlotte quickly shook her head and patted her niece’s shoulder. “No, no, dear, nothing like that. This is good news.”
The look of relief on Judith’s face only made Charlotte feel worse. “Like I was saying, I thought since it was lunchtime, maybe you could join me for a bite to eat—my treat—and then we could talk.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie, but there’s just too much work still to be done on the Dubuisson case. As much as I’d like to, I can’t. Until this thing is solved, I won’t have time for anything.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “You need to eat, dear, and I insist. If you can’t go out to lunch, then I’ll order us something to be brought here. You can still work while you eat, if you have to.” She paused. “And you can just get that look off your face, young lady. I won’t take no for an answer. Now, where’s a phone I can use?”
With a weary sigh, Judith motioned toward a long hallway. “Follow me.”
Judith led the way to a large rectangular-shaped room divided by several shoulder-high, back-to-back partitions. Each partition was further divided into work stations.
“This is as private as it gets around here,” she told Charlotte with a wave of her hand that took in several other officers seated at work stations. “Over here,” she said. “You can use that phone.” She pointed to an area in the second row of partitions. “When the food comes, we’ll talk.”
She seated herself at the work station next to the one she’d pointed out to Charlotte. Picking up a pen, she immediately began sorting through a stack of neatly organized files and jotting down notes on a tablet of paper.
Charlotte eyed with distaste the area Judith had told her to use. Besides a computer monitor and keyboard, there were stacks of files and papers strewn all over the top. There were also what appeared to be several wadded-up candy wrappers, a coffee mug still half-filled with coffee, a half-eaten sandwich, and French fries sitting on top of a paper sack.
She set her purse down near the phone on top of a stack of papers, then rummaged through the purse until she found her address book.
“I believe Georgio’s delivers, and it’s just around the corner,” she said absently as she thumbed through the book until she located the name and number of the restaurant she was looking for. “How about an oyster po-boy?” She punched out the phone number. “If I remember right, that used to be one of your favorites.”
Her face a picture of concentration, Judith nodded without looking up and continued poring over the files and writing down notes.
Once Charlotte had placed the order, she seated herself at the desk. Despite Judith’s telling her they would talk when the food arrived, now that she was actually there, it was all Charlotte could do to contain her curiosity about the autopsy report.
Patience, she cautioned herself. She’d wait until the food came, and while they were eating, she’d begin by telling Judith about Madeline’s new career plans. Then she’d work the conversation around to Jackson’s murder and the autopsy report.
When Judith continued working and didn’t look up or say anything, Charlotte began to wonder if her niece had forgotten about her even being there.
Should she interrupt Judith, or should she simply wait? Charlotte wondered as all around her officers came and went, computer keyboards clicked away, and the phones rang. Probably best to wait, she decided.
With nothing better to do at the moment, Charlotte glanced around and took in the details of the room. One whole side of the long room was a bank of uncovered windows. The windows, along with the white walls and light gray tiled floor, conspired to give the room an open, airy atmosphere.
Except for the cluttered work stations, the place appeared, for the most part, to be clean. No dust that she could see, and the floor looked freshly mopped and waxed. Yep, clean, all except for . . .
Her gaze zeroed in on the desk area in front of her. Disgusting, she thought. Totally disgusting. Compared to Judith’s neatly organized area and the rest of the room, it was a pigsty, and whoever usually sat there had to be a slob, she decided.
Whoever sat there . . .
Louis Thibodeaux. Of course. Who else?
That’s just great, she thought. Not only was the man rude and abrasive, but he was a slob to boot. She shuddered, then her gaze flew to the doorway. She didn’t remember seeing him when she came in, but what if he showed up while she was there? She’d never get Judith to tell her anything if he was around.
“Earth to Aunt Charley.”
With a start, Charlotte suddenly realized that Judith was talking to her.
“Oh, sorry, hon. Did you say something?”
“Are you okay? You looked a little sick for a moment there.”
Charlotte waved away Judith’s concern. “I’m fine. Just woolgathering, I guess,” she added, then laughed. “Having one of those senior moments.”
Judith smiled but still didn’t look quite convinced. “What was it, now, that you wanted to tell me about Mother?”
“She’s decided to go into business for herself. She’s going to move into the other half of the double and work there.”
“In other words, she got fired.”
Charlotte frowned. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact she did, but how did you know?”
“I know my mother, and after all, I am a detective, Auntie. The way I figure it, she found out about my father’s new wife, got all depressed, probably didn’t show up for work, and ended up getting fired.”
“You got all that just from her deciding to go into business for herself? I’m impressed.”
Judith grimaced. “Don’t be. Like I said, I know my mother.”
“Oh, honey, how did you get to be so cynical at such a young age?”
Judith shrugged. “Comes with the territory.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but at that moment, the phone on her desk trilled.
Judith answered it, but her conversation was short, and as she hung up the receiver, she said, “The food’s here. The delivery boy is waiting by the front desk.”
“That was fast.” Charlotte stood and grabbed her purse. “I’ll go take care of it,” she said, then motioned toward the stack of files in front of her niece. “You just go ahead with whatever you’re doing.”
Judith stood. “I’ll have to come with you, Auntie. They don’t like civilians roaming around on their own.”


The huge po-boys were made with freshly baked French bread overstuffed with fried oysters and dressed with lettuce, onions, mayonnaise, and thick slices of tomatoes.
“Just one of these would have been more than enough for the both of us,” Judith said as she bit into her sandwich. “Hmm,” she groaned with pleasure, and Charlotte smiled.
“I’d be willing to bet that you didn’t eat breakfast this morning, now, did you?”
Judith shook her head and managed to say, “No,” and chew at the same time, all without opening her mouth.
By the time she had eaten her fill, Charlotte couldn’t stand the suspense a moment longer, but even so, she didn’t want to appear too eager. “So, did you get that autopsy report back on Jackson,” she said, striving for an offhanded attitude as she carefully wrapped the remainder of her sandwich and stuffed it back into the small paper sack.
Judith was still chewing, but she nodded, then swallowed. “That’s why I’ve been up to my eyeballs around here. From the size of the wound, it appears that the official cause of death was the result of a blow to the head from some type of heavy blunt instrument.” Judith took a drink out of her canned Coke.
“We suspected as much, of course,” she continued, dropping the empty can in a wastebasket beside her desk, “but there was so little blood splatter that we weren’t sure. What we didn’t know was that the weapon used measures about four inches wide. Even so, there were no fibers or anything embedded in the wound to give us a clue as to exactly what type of weapon was used.”
Judith stared into space at a point just past Charlotte’s shoulder, her face a picture of concentration, and Charlotte could well imagine gears and wheels turning in her niece’s head. “It also seems that our Mr. Dubuisson was full of barbiturates,” she said, almost as if she were thinking out loud. “Not enough to kill him but just enough to knock him out.”
Judith’s voice trailed away, and a sick feeling spread through Charlotte. “Why?” she asked.
Judith suddenly frowned as if she’d just remembered her aunt’s presence. “Why did someone kill him if he was already unconscious?”
Charlotte nodded.
“That’s the million-dollar question right now. But if what we suspect holds true, then we just might be on the right track to catching his killer.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “You know who did it?”
“Let’s just say that we think the barbiturates were in the bottle of scotch. It’s being analyzed now. And I personally think that papers were missing out of the safe because there was something in there that had to do with the money Jackson had been taking from the firm, money that—”
“Tony Marriott?” Charlotte exclaimed. If Tony Marriott was on the hot seat now, that meant that suspicion had shifted from Jeanne. “But what about his alibi?”
“Yes, well, that is a sticky point, and unfortunately, no fingerprints other than Jackson’s were found on the bottle. Louis is down at the marina now trying to find someone who might be able to blow holes in Marriott’s alibi.”
“Well, if anyone can bully the truth out of someone, that partner of yours can.”
Judith frowned thoughtfully. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“Like who?”
“Come on, Aunt Charley. You know who I mean. Lou—Louis Thibodeaux, my partner.”
Charlotte shrugged and felt her cheeks grow warm. “What’s to like? Or dislike,” she quickly added. “I don’t even know the man.”
Judith’s eyes narrowed. “Or could it be that you like him a little too much?” she said shrewdly.
Charlotte felt a full-fledged flush inching up her neck and tasted a hot denial on her tongue. Then she recalled some old saying about a person protesting too much and decided against reacting to Judith’s question at all. She made a show of checking her watch instead.
“Good grief,” she said. “Look what time it is.” She abruptly stood and gathered her purse and the sack with her leftover sandwich. “I’m supposed to help your mother clean up the other half of the double this afternoon. Hopefully, Hank and your brother can move her in this weekend. But she’s already upset Sweety Boy once this morning, and I don’t want him upset again.”
Charlotte knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop. But even worse was seeing the knowing grin spreading on Judith’s face.
“He’s not married, you know,” Judith told her. “And he’ll have a pretty decent pension once he retires.”
“That’s enough, young lady. It’s not nice to tease an old woman.”
“You old? Ha! That’s a funny one if I ever heard one.”
“Getting older by the moment,” Charlotte groused. “Only five more months and I’ll turn the big six-o.”
Judith shoved out of her chair and walked over to Charlotte. “You’ll never be old, Aunt Charley.” She hugged her. “And I’m sorry for teasing you.” She pulled away and smiled. “Forgive me?”
“Of course,” Charlotte replied, then grinned. “After all, you are my favorite niece.”
Judith laughed. “Just like Daniel’s your favorite nephew and Hank’s your favorite son.”
Judith walked Charlotte back down the hallway to the elevator by the front desk. To Charlotte’s surprise, her niece stepped into the elevator with her, then punched the first-floor button.
“I’ll ride down with you,” she said as the doors closed. “Besides, I almost forgot to tell you that we haven’t caught up with Brian O’Connor yet, but we did talk to his father. I’m afraid that’s another brick wall, though. His father claims that Brian took him to visit some out-of-town relatives that night. Like everyone else involved in this case, he has an alibi, too.”
Charlotte just shook her head. “You certainly have your work cut out for you, don’t you, hon?”
Judith nodded. “Goes with the territory. It’s in the job description.”
The elevator arrived at the first floor, and the doors slid open. Charlotte stepped out, but Judith stayed inside, her finger on the OPEN button. “Speaking of jobs,” Judith said. “Specifically my mother’s new so-called career.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “What about it?”
“Well, I know it’s none of my business, and I love her dearly, but we both know how my mother operates.” Judith grimaced. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, just don’t let her take advantage of you, not again.” She paused, and suddenly looking uncomfortable, she added, “And one more thing, Auntie. I know I don’t have to say it, but I really shouldn’t have discussed the details of this case with you—policy and all that—so—”
Charlotte nodded, then made a zipping motion with her finger across her lips. “My lips are sealed.”


Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte was climbing into her van when a familiar-looking blue Ford Taurus pulled into an empty parking space beside her. When the driver’s door opened and Louis Thibodeaux got out, she cringed, recalling Judith’s teasing. For a split second, the urge to duck down out of sight came over her.
But Charlotte never had been the type to hide or run from a confrontation of any kind, whether real or imagined. Still thinking about Judith’s teasing remarks, she ignored the butterflies jumping in her stomach and forced herself to sit there and wait, just to see if he would notice her.
He didn’t notice her ... or anything else for that matter. He didn’t even glance her way. His craggy face was a picture of intense concentration as he hitched up his pants, then strode purposefully toward the station house.
She waited until he disappeared around the corner of the building before she started the van. Feeling relieved yet oddly disappointed, she drove out of the parking lot and into the street.
Or could it be that you like him a little too much?
Charlotte thought about Judith’s words all the way down Martin Luther King Boulevard to St. Charles Avenue. While she waited at the stop sign for a break in the traffic, she wondered if it were possible to be both repelled and attracted to someone at the same time.
“I’m too old for this stuff,” she muttered, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Besides, if she’d guessed right and the messy desk next to Judith did belong to Louis Thibodeaux, the man was a total slob. What’s more, she’d had her love of a lifetime with Hank’s father. Though she’d had several relationships since, when all was said and done, no one had ever measured up to the memories of her son’s father. No one had ever even come close to tempting her into the more permanent institution of marriage.
The blast of a car horn shook her out of her reverie. Ignoring the little voice that said she could be wrong, that the desk might not have been his and Louis Thibodeaux might measure up if given a chance, Charlotte pulled onto St. Charles Avenue.
For the rest of her drive home, Charlotte shied away from thinking about her niece’s partner and tried concentrating on what she’d learned from Judith instead. As she dissected each piece of information about the ongoing investigation into Jackson’s murder, especially the part about the barbiturates in the Scotch, something niggled at the back of her mind. But the more she tried to pinpoint what bothered her about it, the more elusive it became.
Then there was Brian O’Connor, she thought, slowing to a stop for a red light. She could still see the intent look on his face as he’d watched Anna-Maria and James. Had she imagined it, or had that look been more than simple curiosity or admiration for a pretty girl?
Sneaking around down on the porch . . . spying.
Spying on whom? Charlotte wondered as Clarice’s accusations came to mind. Spying on Anna-Maria because he’d somehow found out that she was his daughter? Or spying on Jackson to learn his habits because Brian had more sinister things on his mind? More sinister things, like murder?
Of course, both possibilities hinged on whether she could believe Clarice. Had she been mistaken in dismissing the old lady’s accusations?
Working for the Dubuissons’ neighbors would have certainly presented Brian many opportunities to spy on both Anna-Maria and Jackson. It would have also afforded him knowledge about the layout of the house.
But what about motive? she wondered. Did he have a motive, enough to commit murder? After all, according to Bitsy, it was Andrew St. John who had framed Brian and had him sent to prison, not Jackson.
Still . . if what Bitsy Duhe had told her was true, how would Brian have felt, knowing he’d been cheated out of the woman he loved and a daughter as well, a daughter who didn’t even know he existed and had grown up thinking another man was her father?
But why now? she wondered as she watched the cars cross the intersection in front of her. Why would Brian have waited so long to do something about it? And what about his alibi? According to Judith, Brian’s father had given him an alibi. But wouldn’t any parent do the same if they suspected their child was in trouble?
The traffic light finally turned green, and Charlotte accelerated. The whole thing was a puzzle, she decided, a giant puzzle with too many missing pieces.


When Charlotte turned down her street, she expected to see Madeline’s car parked in front of her house. But there was no sign of her sister’s jaunty red Neon. Though she wasn’t exactly surprised—Madeline had never been that dependable—Charlotte felt a twinge of disappointment in spite of herself.
Now what? she wondered as she unlocked the door and let herself inside. Should she call Madeline or simply wait until she heard from her? She could always go ahead and start on the rooms, anyway The last time she’d cleaned them had been over six months ago, right after the last renters had sneaked out while she was at work without paying her the two months back rent they owed. If nothing else, she could at least air out the place.
“What would you suggest I do?” she asked Sweety Boy.
The little bird’s only answer was to ruffle his feathers and prance back and forth on his perch.
“Well, you’re no help,” Charlotte told him as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into her moccasins.
Out of habit and because she thought Madeline might have called, she checked her answering machine. The blinking light indicated she had three messages, and Charlotte hit the PLAY button.
“Hi, Charlotte, this is Nadia. I just thought I’d let you know what a wonderful man your nephew is. He’s already arranged for Davy and me to see Ricco, and what’s more, he’s agreed to take Ricco’s case. Thanks again for your help, and I’ll talk to you later.”
As the machine beeped and the next message began, a smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. Nadia and Daniel. Now those two would make a perfect couple, she thought.
“Hi, Mom.” The sound of her son’s voice on the answering machine instantly wiped away her matchmaking thoughts. “Just checking in, since I haven’t heard anything out of you in a few days,” he said. “Guess you’re busy, though, like everyone else, huh? You don’t have to be, you know. If you weren’t so stubborn, I—Never mind. Just give me a call when you get a chance. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she murmured as the machine beeped, signaling the end of Hank’s call and the beginning of the final message.
“Charlotte, there’s been a change of plans.”
At the sound of her sister’s voice, Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Would you believe,” Madeline continued, her recorded voice breathless with excitement, “my old boss just called and wants me to come back to work? He says the office manager should never have fired me without consulting him. Between you and me, though, I suspect his offer has more to do with the fact that I work on certain special accounts for him that are—Well, let’s just say the IRS would have a field day if they knew the truth about them. Anyway, isn’t that great! But hey, Charlotte, thanks, anyway, for the offer to help and for—for just being there. You’re the greatest. Talk to you later.”
The machine beeped, signaling the end of the message, but all Charlotte could do was stare into space with unseeing eyes as her sister’s message spun through her head.
“Yeah, I’m the greatest, all right. The greatest chump.” Just like that, she thought. One minute her sister was starting her own business, and the next, she’s not.
“And speaking of business, what’s that business about special accounts?” she muttered. “And the IRS?” Charlotte frowned. What on earth was Madeline thinking? And what in the world had her sister gotten involved in this time?
Charlotte’s frown deepened. “And why am I standing around talking to myself, for Pete’s sake?” It was a bad habit she’d gotten into of late, one she really needed to work on breaking.


Charlotte returned Hank’s call but was told he was in with a patient. She left her name with his receptionist and made a mental note to try again later if she didn’t hear from him.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she tried to stay busy and not worry about her sister’s troublesome message.
She went next door and opened all the windows to let the rooms air out. Then she let Sweety Boy out of his cage and began the distasteful task of cleaning it. Meanwhile, she kept telling herself that Madeline was no longer a helpless little girl. Her sister was a grown woman, responsible for herself. If she got herself into trouble with the IRS over some questionable bookkeeping, then it was no one’s fault but her own.
But no matter how hard Charlotte tried not to worry and how much she scrubbed and cleaned Sweety Boy’s cage, she couldn’t get her sister’s message out of her mind.
It was almost six by the time that Charlotte took a break. She had just sat down in front of the television to watch JAG while she polished off the last of the leftover chicken gumbo from Sunday’s lunch when the phone rang.
In spite of the fact that JAG was a rerun, it was one of the few programs she truly enjoyed, and she was hungry, so she decided to let the machine take a message.
“Charlotte, this is Jeanne Dubuisson. I really need to talk to you—”
The moment she heard Jeanne’s voice, Charlotte set down the bowl of gumbo, then rushed over to the desk and grabbed the receiver. “Hang on, Jeanne,” she said as she switched off the answering machine. “Sorry about that,” she told her. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re home. Jackson’s body has finally been released. We’re having the funeral tomorrow at eleven. But Anna-Maria and I have to be at the funeral home by eight, so there won’t be anyone who can let you inside the house when you get here in the morning.”
“What about leaving me a key somewhere?” Charlotte suggested.
“Why, yes, I suppose I could. Tell you what. I’ll leave it under that big potted plant that sits on the right side of the front door”
“And don’t forget to leave the front gate unlocked, too”
“Good point. Lately I’ve been so forgetful that I’d better write myself a note.” Jeanne hesitated. “I’d like to ask another favor, too,” she said after a moment had passed. “I’m really going to need some help after the service, when everyone congregates at the house—you know, with the refreshments and drinks. I’m having the food catered, but the catering service I’m using doesn’t supply anyone to serve the stuff. I’d be willing to pay you extra.”
“There’s no need for that,” Charlotte said. “I’ve already told you I’ll help in any way I can. I’m just so sorry all of you have to go through this”
“You’re a good person, Charlotte LaRue, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Just so you’ll be watching for him, the caterer promised he would deliver everything around ten.”
“I’ll be ready for him,” Charlotte assured her.
The line hummed with silence for a moment, then Jeanne cleared her throat. “I really hate imposing on you like this,” she said, “but there’s just one more little thing I need help with, too. Mother still refuses to attend the services, and she won’t hear of me getting a sitter. The way she’s been acting lately, I—Could you—I mean, would it be too much of an imposition for you to come a little earlier than usual, and would you mind checking on her while we’re gone?”
“Of course I don’t mind, and it’s not an imposition. I’ll be there, so just stop worrying—and try to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day for you.”
“Lately, they’re all hard, but I’ll try. And thanks, Charlotte. See you tomorrow.”
Charlotte hung up the receiver. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, signaling the rain that the dreary day had promised. Charlotte quickly sent up a prayer that the storm would pass over quickly. Funerals were hard enough on the family involved on a good day. A cloudy, rainy day always made things seem worse.


Chapter Sixteen
The day of Jackson Dubuisson’s funeral dawned bright with sunshine, but the air was heavy with steamy humidity left over from the stormy night.
Charlotte had set her alarm clock fifteen minutes earlier than usual so that she would still have time to take her daily walk before going to work. By the time she’d finished the walk and stepped into the shower, she was dripping with sweat.
Sweat was good for you, though, she grudgingly reassured herself as she stood under the tepid spray of water, rinsing off a rich lather of soap. She’d once read an article somewhere that sweating opened up the pores and helped the body rid itself of impurities.
Charlotte switched off the faucets and reached for a towel. So if it was so good for you, why did she still feel so icky even after taking a shower? Whoever had written that silly article had never lived in New Orleans, she figured.

Charlotte kept her promise to Jeanne and arrived early. When she approached the front of the house, she was vastly relieved to see that there was no sign of the reporters who had kept vigil for the past four days.
They were probably all at the funeral, hovering around the church like a flock of vultures, just waiting to pick up some juicy tidbit to exploit.
Thankful that she could finally park in her usual spot, Charlotte pulled the van over to the curb near the corner. When she climbed out of the vehicle, an old battered truck pulled alongside the curb of the house next door and parked.
Charlotte immediately recognized the truck as belonging to the gardener, Joseph O’Connor, but the lone man who climbed out of the truck was Brian, not Joseph.
He acknowledged her presence with a brief nod; then, after he’d unloaded a wheelbarrow, he immediately began stacking it with bags of what looked like fertilizer out of the back of the pickup.
Where was his father? she wondered as she watched Brian heave the large bags out of the truck bed.
Though he was some distance away, with each movement he made she could still see the muscles in his arms and back straining beneath the black T-shirt he wore.
What was it that Bitsy had told her about his father? Something about his being ill? No, not exactly ill, she thought as she walked to the back of the van.
Charlotte climbed inside and began gathering the supplies she would need. Bitsy had said Joseph sometimes had problems with his arthritis and that it was the reason Brian had moved back to New Orleans.
But was that the real reason? Was Brian simply being a good, dutiful son, or did he have another, more sinister agenda for returning to his hometown, one that included revenge and murder?
Supply carrier in hand and her mind whirling with the implications of her thoughts, Charlotte climbed slowly out of the van. As she slammed the door and locked it, she toyed with the idea of using the old gardener’s condition, as an excuse to start up a conversation with his son.
But to what purpose? The moment the question popped into her mind, she immediately realized how far-fetched and silly the whole idea was. If Brian did realize that Anna-Maria was his daughter, he wasn’t about to discuss it with someone he’d only met a few days earlier. And if he’d cold-bloodedly murdered Jackson Dubuisson, he would be a fool to confess his crime to anyone, let alone the maid from next door.
Chiding herself for being such a nosy-rosie, Charlotte pocketed the keys, then walked briskly to the front gate. At the gate, she reached out and tugged on the latch. The latch held fast and didn’t budge, and Charlotte sighed. Had Jeanne forgotten to leave the gate unlocked, after all? Charlotte pulled down hard on the handle one more time, just to make sure, but it still didn’t open.
She glanced up toward the upper gallery, her hand still gripping the handle. What now? she wondered, searching for a solution to the dilemma. She could always use her cell phone to call Clarice and ask her to throw the inside switch that unlocked the gate. But in order to do so, the old lady would have to go down the stairs to where the switch was located, near the front door.
No, Charlotte decided. Even if Clarice agreed to go down the stairs, which she was sure she wouldn’t, she couldn’t take the chance that the old lady might slip and fall. She’d have to think of something else.
But what? she wondered as a frisson of real concern coursed through her. Clarice was in the house, all alone. What if she had another stroke? What if she slipped going to the bathroom, or what if . . .
Charlotte shook her head and tried to block out all of the negative thoughts churning through her mind. Think positive, she commanded herself. There has to be a way to get in.
“Is there something wrong, ma’am?”
Charlotte almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the unexpected male voice directly behind her. When she spun around, the sight of Brian O’Connor standing within touching distance unnerved her even more.
“Hey, take it easy,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Feeling more than a little flustered, Charlotte stared up at the tall, sandy-haired son of the gardener. As she tried to regain control over her momentary panic, once again she was taken aback by a vague feeling of familiarity, the same kind of feeling she’d had when she’d first met him at Bitsy Duhe’s house.
It was his eyes, she decided. Those startling green eyes . . . just like . . . like . . . Of course! she thought. No wonder he seemed familiar. Anna-Maria’s eyes had that same piercing green quality to them, with just a hint of a bruised look about them. Like father, like daughter?
When Charlotte suddenly realized that too much time had passed and that he was looking at her strangely, she blurted out, “The gate is locked. Jeanne—Mrs. Dubuisson, that is—was supposed to leave it open for me, but I guess she forgot.” To emphasize the point, Charlotte rattled the latch. When several strained moments passed again and Brian simply continued to stare at her, Charlotte became uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
She’d wanted to talk to him, question him, but now that she had the opportunity to do so, she didn’t have the foggiest idea as to how to proceed.
“I really need to get in,” she finally said, for no other reason than to fill in the silence. “Everyone’s at the funeral home, all except Miss Clarice. And she’s by herself ”—she waved her hand toward the house—“inside, and I promised Mrs. Dubuisson that I’d keep an eye on her.”
Why on earth was she babbling on so? she wondered. Because he made her nervous, came the answer. Because deep down, in the dark recesses of her mind, she suspected that he could very well be the person who had murdered Jackson Dubuisson.
“I think there’s another way in,” he finally said. Seeing her speculative look, he quickly clarified his statement. “While I was trimming the hedges the other day, I noticed that there’s a gap in the fence on that side. Two of the metal bars must have rusted through. I’ve been meaning to mention it to Jean—Mrs. Dubuisson—but with everything that’s happened, I didn’t want to bother her right now. I think the gap is probably large enough to squeeze through, though, if you’re willing to try it out.”
Had he tried it out? Had he squeezed through the gap, sneaked onto the porch, smashed in the pane of glass . . .
“Show me” was the only thing that Charlotte could think to say. Anything to end the awkward conversation, anything to stop the wild speculations roaring through her mind.
Just as Brian had predicted, the gap in the fence was big enough for Charlotte to squeeze through . . . and big enough for someone larger to squeeze through, too, she thought. . . . Sneaking around . . . spying . . . Someone like Brian O’Connor?
“Thank you,” she told him once she was safely standing on the other side of the fence.
“No problem,” he said. “And if you don’t mind, be sure and tell Mrs. Dubuisson about the fence.”
“I’ll tell her,” Charlotte assured him, eager to end the encounter. “Thanks again,” she added, then turned and hurried toward the front steps.
At the mention of Jeanne’s married name, there had been no hesitation this time, she noted. Too late, though, she thought. He’d already slipped up the first time and almost called her Jeanne. Of course that in itself was no big deal, she silently argued, playing devil’s advocate. After all, according to Bitsy, the two were once in love with each other.
When Charlotte reached the porch, she glanced nervously over her shoulder to see what Brian was doing. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be doing, but to her relief, he had returned to the truck to finish unloading the bags of fertilizer.
Charlotte released a heavy sigh. Had she done it again? she wondered. Had she once again allowed her overactive imagination to get the best of her? After a moment, she decided that maybe she had. Maybe she was making a mountain out of a molehill and had let Bitsy Duhe’s gossip get the best of her.
With a shake of her head, Charlotte turned her attention back to the problem at hand. Since Jeanne had forgotten to unlock the front gate, she worried that she might have forgotten to leave the key to the door, too. When she lifted up the edge of the potted plant next to the door and felt beneath it, Charlotte sighed with relief when her fingers connected with the small piece of metal.
The moment she stepped inside the foyer, she wrinkled her nose at the distinct odor hanging in the air. Bacon, she decided as she set down her supply carrier. Someone had fried bacon earlier, and the scent of bacon, like the smell of fried fish, always seemed to hang around forever.
Air freshener would take care of the smell, but the first order of the day was to check on Clarice—just a quick peek to make sure the old lady was okay and to ease her mind. Then she needed to get a move on before the caterers delivered the food or before someone decided to show up at the house early.
Halfway up the staircase, the muted sound of voices, followed by canned laughter, drifted down. Clarice’s television. Not wanting to startle the old lady, Charlotte called out to her before she reached her door.
“Miss Clarice! It’s Charlotte.” She waited a moment, then peeked around the door. “Good morning,” she told the older woman.
As usual, Clarice was still in bed, and though she looked a bit more tidy than the last time Charlotte had seen her, she also appeared to be a bit flushed.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?” Charlotte asked her.
The old lady totally ignored her question. “You’re late,” she said, her gaze never wavering from the TV set. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
Good old Clarice, Charlotte thought. Rude as ever. “Yes, well, I had a little problem getting in,” she explained, thinking that the old lady sounded a bit breathless as well as looking flushed. Maybe she should take Clarice’s temperature just to make sure she wasn’t running a fever. “Jeanne must have forgotten to leave the front gate unlocked.”
“Sounds like that airhead daughter of mine.”
It was hard to bite back the stinging retort that popped into her head, hard to keep from telling the old lady that she was an ungrateful old grouch who should be thankful she had such a kind, loving daughter like Jeanne. But Charlotte reminded herself that Clarice was just that, an old woman.
“Yes . . . well, I just wanted to let you know I’m here,” Charlotte told her, noting with relief that the flush seemed to be fading. Just excitement, she figured, or agitation because she’d been late showing up. Besides, she thought, Jeanne would never have left her mother unattended if she’d suspected she was ill.
“I’ll be cleaning the bottom floor first,” Charlotte said, “but if you need anything, just call out.”
Charlotte waited a moment longer for some kind of response, but when Clarice kept watching the TV and said nothing, Charlotte finally left the room.
Downstairs, as Charlotte entered the kitchen, she quickly glanced around, mentally listing the chores that needed taking care of by priority.
There were unwashed dishes in the sink. A dirty plate and fork, along with the morning newspaper, cluttered up the breakfast table, and on the counter next to the stove top sat a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.
She walked over to the stove, a frown on her face. A dirty skillet was on one of the burners, and a film of grease was splattered all over the stove top. Someone had definitely fried bacon.
Strange, she thought as she reached out to remove the frying pan. When Jeanne cooked, she always cleaned up after herself. Charlotte couldn’t recall her ever having left such a greasy mess.
The moment Charlotte touched the handle of the skillet, her frown grew deeper. She released the handle and gingerly tapped the pan itself. Sure enough, the pan was still warm.
“Now that’s really strange,” she muttered as she took hold of the handle and poured the grease into a nearby garbage pail, then placed the skillet in the sink. By her calculations, Jeanne and Anna-Maria had to have left well over thirty minutes earlier, plenty of time for the pan to have cooled off.
Charlotte squirted a dab of liquid detergent in the pan, then filled it with water to soak. After she turned off the faucet, she walked over to the table to retrieve the plate and fork. Back at the sink, she rinsed the plate before placing it in the dishwasher. It wasn’t until she had actually stacked the plate in the dishwasher that it suddenly dawned on her that the leftover egg yolk on the plate had rinsed off beneath the spray of water without her having to scrub it, which meant it hadn’t congealed yet, which, in turn, meant that it hadn’t been that long since someone had eaten the plate of food.
For several moments, Charlotte stood staring out the window above the sink as she tried to put her finger on just exactly what was bothering her about the messy kitchen. Then she recalled a conversation between Jeanne and Clarice . . . Clarice saying something about wanting bacon . . . lots of bacon, fried nice and crisp.
“Of course,” she murmured. The obvious answer was that Clarice had decided to fix her own breakfast after her daughter and granddaughter had left. But Clarice didn’t cook as far as Charlotte knew, and she didn’t go up and down the stairs by herself, either.
Or did she? Charlotte wondered, remembering the scuff marks she’d had to scrub off the steps. And if Clarice could negotiate the stairs without assistance, why pretend otherwise all this time?
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the half-hour, the sound penetrating Charlotte’s reverie, and she felt a momentary panic. At the most, she only had a little over an hour and a half before the caterers showed up.
Other than the dirty dishes and the grease-splattered stove top, the kitchen was basically clean, and it didn’t take her long to load the dishwasher, then wipe down the stove top, the countertops, and the appliances.
Charlotte chose to use the broom instead of the noisy vacuum cleaner just in case Clarice might call out or need something. Then she mopped the room.
The dining room only took minutes to clean. Charlotte dusted the huge antique table and matching China cabinet, but she decided against taking the time to wax or polish the furniture. Instead, she concentrated on the sideboard, since it would be used to hold the food brought in by the caterers.
Once she was finished with the dining room, she moved to the parlor. After eyeing the large room, she decided that all it needed was straightening and a bit of dusting. Though she would have normally vacuumed, too, she decided to make a quick check on Clarice first before running the noisy machine.
From the sound of Clarice’s television filtering down the stairs, Charlotte recognized a popular game show. Knowing that the old lady sometimes napped about midmorning, she decided against calling out to her this time as she quietly approached the bedroom door.
When Charlotte peeked around the corner of the open doorway, it took a moment for the sight before her to register in her mind.
She’d expected to see Clarice dozing peacefully. But Clarice wasn’t asleep. The shock of what she did see hit her full force, and her mouth dropped open.