Chapter Seventeen
Clarice was standing beside the bed, her back to the doorway, and in each of her hands was a small barbell.
Charlotte clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle bubbling up in her throat. Dressed in her flannel nightgown, her thin gray hair sticking out like porcupine quills, the old lady looked ridiculous, all hunched over, straining to lift the weights.
But Charlotte’s amusement swiftly grew into amazement as she watched Clarice slowly lift first one arm, then the other. But from the way her arms quivered, Charlotte could tell that the exertion was a strain.
Weight training? Clarice worked out with weights? What a hoot! she thought. As long as she’d been employed by the Dubuissons, Charlotte couldn’t ever recall seeing Clarice do any kind of physical exercise despite Jeanne’s efforts to persuade her otherwise. In fact, the old lady balked at even the suggestion of doing anything physical.
But as Charlotte continued watching the older woman, she recognized immediately that Clarice was no stranger to using the weights. She knew exactly what she was doing.
As she continued to observe the old lady and felt her own arms strain with each curl the old lady achieved, a peculiar feeling deep inside took root and grew. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but instinct told her that the old lady probably wouldn’t appreciate having an audience.
Charlotte quickly backed away from the door, then retraced her steps to the top of the stairwell. The thing to do would be to ignore what she saw, to simply take care of what she was hired to do and mind her own business.
Still . . . there was something about the whole thing that bothered her, and like a pesky fly that wouldn’t go away, her curiosity finally got the best of her. What would happen if . . .
Before she could change her mind, Charlotte called out, “Miss Clarice, you doing okay in there?” Charlotte took her time walking back to the bedroom door.
When she looked inside the room, Clarice was back in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Her wrinkled face was flushed, reminding Charlotte of how it had looked when she’d first arrived and checked on her, and the barbells were nowhere in sight.
Either Clarice had hidden the weights under the bedcovers or she had shoved them beneath the bed. But the truly bizarre thing about the whole incident was that the old lady was lying there with her eyes closed; of all things, she was pretending to be asleep.
But why? Charlotte wondered as she stared at the old woman. Why would she hide the fact that she was weight lifting or that she was stronger than she pretended to be? To what purpose?
When the answer first popped into her mind, Charlotte almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the notion. At first, she dismissed the idea totally as but one more example of her own overactive imagination.
But as she backed out of the doorway, a prickly feeling danced along the nape of her neck, and her mind was bombarded with what could only be described as instant replays of different scenes that had occurred over the past week.
. . . the arguments between Clarice and Jeanne over Jackson . . . the coarse, powdery substance in Clarice’s bathroom ... the almost-empty sleeping-pill bottle . . . the description of the murder weapon in the autopsy report . . . the scuff marks on the stairs ... the smell of bacon and the messy kitchen . . .
In a daze, Charlotte slowly walked back to the stairwell. By the time she reached the first step, her knees were weak from the enormity of the implications.
At the stairs, she gripped the rail, then sank down to sit on the top step. Was the notion absurd? Had Clarice killed her son-in-law?
In and of itself, yes, the notion was absurd. Clarice was a crippled old woman who wasn’t strong enough to overpower a man Jackson’s size.
But given all of the facts, no, the notion wasn’t that far-fetched. It would have been difficult but not impossible for Clarice to have spiked the scotch with the sleeping pills. Once the bottle had been opened, all she had to do was add the powder.
She also had access to the perfect murder weapon. According to what the autopsy report had revealed, the barbells were just about the right size.
Charlotte shivered and glanced back toward the old lady’s door. Fifteen years earlier, Andrew St. Martin had been murdered in what was eerily similar, by all accounts, to the way Jackson was killed. Was it simply a weird, unfortunate coincidence, or was there a more logical reason? she wondered. Could it be that the same person who had murdered Andrew had also killed Jackson?
Could the murderer have been Clarice? Was it possible that she had killed both her husband and her son-in-law?
According to what Bitsy had said, the police had thought it was possible when Andrew was murdered. Clarice had been the number-one suspect in her husband’s death. But Jeanne had provided her mother with an alibi, so there was no way of proving it. Jeanne was very devoted to her mother, but did her devotion include covering up the murder of her own father and now her husband as well?
As for motive . . . Though Charlotte certainly didn’t condone murder in any shape or form, she could understand the motive Clarice might have had for killing Andrew, especially if he’d been abusive to her and Jeanne. But what about her motive for killing Jackson?
He’s stealing you blind . . . and Jackson, got his . . . serves him right too . . .
The only logical answer that Charlotte could think of was the oldest reason in the world: a mother protecting her child.
Clarice might be old and appear to be senile at times, but she was well aware of the loveless relationship between Jackson and her daughter. She’d accused Jeanne of being weak . . . spineless, and on more than one occasion, she’d made it crystal clear that she didn’t trust her daughter’s husband. If Clarice had somehow found out that Jackson was also cheating on Jeanne, then . . .
Charlotte suddenly remembered Clarice’s accusations against Brian O’Connor. The old lady had accused him of killing Jackson, had said he was sneaking around, spying. Charlotte had a growing suspicion that Clarice, in fact, had been the one sneaking around and spying.
Had the old lady’s accusation simply been a ploy calculated to throw suspicion on Brian and divert suspicion away from Jeanne and herself? And if it had, why had Clarice revealed all of that stuff to her instead of telling the police?
When the answer came to her, Charlotte almost groaned out loud. Clarice knew. Somehow she’d found out that Judith, a police detective, was Charlotte’s niece. And if she knew, then it was possible she’d counted on Charlotte to reveal the information about Brian. If Clarice had revealed it directly, the police might not have taken it seriously, but if the information was revealed indirectly ...
Charlotte suddenly got the feeling that she’d been had. Big time. But was Clarice that clever, that devious? Had she used her?
With a weary sigh, Charlotte pulled herself up and stood. Suddenly, she felt old, very old and tired, as she trudged down the stairs.
Speculating about Clarice’s guilt was one thing. She could speculate till doomsday, but to what end? Just thinking about blowing the whistle on the old lady made her queasy. For one thing, Clarice wasn’t just any old lady; she was Jeanne’s mother and Anna-Maria’s grandmother. She was also an affluent woman who was well known and respected throughout the city.
So she should get away with murder?
The nagging voice of her conscience made Charlotte cringe. No one should get away with murder.
But what if she was wrong? What if she went to Judith, told her what she knew, told her what she suspected, and then found out she’d been mistaken about everything?
Charlotte shuddered. The repercussions of such a mistake would be catastrophic. Not only would she lose a long-term client, but the Garden District, in spite of its size, was truly a small community. Word would travel like wildfire. Even now, she could hear the whispers and gossip. She could kiss her little cleaning service good-bye. Why, she’d be lucky to ever work again.
No, she decided. All she had right now was what the movies and mystery books termed as circumstantial evidence. All she had were unproven speculations. Before she could go around accusing someone of murder, she’d need proof, real proof, the kind that would stand up in a court of law.
Proof, like the residue from the crushed phenobarbital tablets.
At the foot of the stairs, Charlotte groaned and almost tripped over the last step. In her mind’s eye she saw herself cleaning Clarice’s bathroom, wiping off the cabinet top, possibly destroying the only evidence that could substantiate her suspicions.
Then, like a lightbulb going off in her head, she suddenly remembered that she had never gotten around to doing the laundry. The washcloth she’d used to wipe up the powder was still in Clarice’s dirty clothes hamper. Surely the residue on the washcloth was still detectable.
There was also the prescription bottle itself. If the pills were used, the pill count and the date the prescription was filled wouldn’t jibe, would they? Unless . . . Charlotte almost groaned again. Unless Jeanne had remembered to get the prescription refilled.
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed its quarter-hour signal, and Charlotte’s pulse jumped. Time was flying, and she still needed to vacuum the main parlor before the caterers arrived. And soon after the caterers, people would start trickling in from the funeral service.
If she wanted to get the evidence, she needed to do it now, while she had the opportunity. But was that what she wanted?
Her head swirled with doubts, and a war of emotions raged within her. She tapped her fingers impatiently along the top of the stair rail. “What to do . . . what to do,” she murmured.
Chapter Eighteen
No one should get away with murder.
Charlotte calculated that if she hurried, she could get the evidence and still have time to vacuum the parlor.
In the movies she’d seen and in the mystery novels she’d read, the police always wore plastic gloves when gathering evidence at the scene of a crime. She also recalled that as they gathered it, they used either paper or plastic bags to store it. Charlotte always kept a small box of disposable plastic gloves in her supply carrier, and she figured she needed a paper sack, since the washcloth might still be damp.
In the laundry room, she rummaged through a stack of paper goods earmarked for the recycling bin until she found what she needed. She folded the medium-size sack into a small, flat square, then slipped it inside her apron pocket.
Midway up the stairs, she frowned. Why was the television set off? she wondered. Usually the infernal thing stayed on nonstop, day and night.
Outside Clarice’s bedroom, she rapped lightly on the doorframe. “Miss Clarice,” she called out, “I’m ready to clean your room now” She peeked around the open doorway “May I come in?”
The old lady was perched on top of the bed and propped up by several pillows. In her hands was a book, of all things. Even more surprising was that she had changed from her nightgown into a cotton knit pantsuit. Her hair was brushed, and Charlotte was astonished to see that she had even applied a touch of rouge and lipstick.
Clarice glanced up over the top of her glasses. “You can stop your gawking and come in.” She motioned impatiently for Charlotte to enter. “I do dress up once in a while, you know,” she said defensively “Wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment to anyone”
And committing murder isn’t an embarrassment? Charlotte had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out the thought. Afraid that what she was thinking would show, she quickly lowered her gaze to stare at the floor. “Since you’re reading,” she said evenly, “maybe you’d like to sit out on the gallery while I change the sheets. That way I won’t disturb you.” Hoping the old lady would be cooperative for a change, she added, “It’s a beautiful day this morning”
“One day’s the same as another when you get to be my age,” Clarice grumbled. “And the sheets are just fine. They don’t need changing. Besides, I’m tired. I don’t want to go outside. Just clean around me. But hurry up. My ten o’clock soap opera comes on soon.”
By all means, we wou/dn’t want to miss our soap opera. To hide her contemptuous thoughts, Charlotte forced a smile through tight lips. “I’ll start in the bathroom,” she said politely.
Once inside the small room, she nudged the door closed behind her and set down her supply carrier. She figured her fingerprints were already on the suspect prescription bottle, since she’d handled it when she’d gotten a pill for Jeanne, but she donned a pair of thin disposable gloves, anyway, before she sorted through the prescription bottles. Thank goodness for Jeanne’s absentmindedness, she thought when she found the phenobarbital bottle and saw that Jeanne had neglected to get the medication refilled.
Charlotte narrowed her gaze and peered at the date that the prescription was last filled. According to the number of tablets that were supposed to be in the bottle, minus the one she’d given Jeanne, she calculated that at least four were missing. Though Charlotte knew she was far from an expert on drugs, she figured that four would have been just enough to render a man Jackson’s size unconscious without outright killing him.
She slipped the prescription bottle into the paper sack she’d brought with her, then turned to the dirty clothes hamper. The hamper was so full that clothes were spilling over the edges.
The flannel nightgown Clarice had just changed out of was on top. She removed the gown and several damp towels under it Just beneath another crumpled nightgown, she spied what she hoped was the corner of the washcloth she was looking for.
“There you are,” she whispered, half in anticipation, half in dread.
It’s not too late. You can still walk away and forget about it.
Charlotte hesitated, her mind reeling with sudden misgivings despite her earlier conclusions. Part of her wanted to be wrong about everything, wanted it to all be just another example of her own imagination gone wild, while part of her railed against the idea that anyone could cold-bloodedly murder another human being and get away with it.
Knowing in her heart of hearts that there was only one way to find out for sure and that she couldn’t live with herself until she did, Charlotte took a deep breath and braced herself for what had to be done.
She had figured that the washcloth might still be damp. But just in case it had dried out, she didn’t want to risk losing even one grain of the powdery residue from the crushed tablets that might still be on it. Ever so carefully, she reached to remove the wadded-up nightgown first.
The moment she closed her fingers around the silky gown, something sharp pricked her finger. “Ouch!” she cried as she snatched back her hand.
“Charlotte?” Clarice called out from the bedroom. “What’s all the ruckus in there? What on earth are you doing?”
Charlotte yanked off the plastic gloves. A small pearl of blood bubbled on the inside of her right forefinger. “Ah . . . I—I’m cleaning. I just jammed my finger,” she lied, her gaze shifting to the closed door. What if the old woman decided to come check on her? Then what?
“Yeah, right,” Charlotte muttered as she turned her attention back to her finger. Since when had Clarice worried about anyone but Clarice?
At first, Charlotte couldn’t figure out what had stuck her, since nothing was in her finger. When she picked up the glove and carefully turned it inside out, she spotted a small sliver of glass.
Glass?
Using her fingernails, she removed the sliver and placed it on the countertop, then rinsed her hands beneath the faucet.
Why would a sliver of glass be embedded in a nightgown? she wondered as she retrieved a roll of paper towels from her supply carrier and tore off a sheet.
As she blotted her hands dry and applied pressure to her bleeding finger, she stared at the gown. One sliver of glass in and of itself wasn’t that significant. But if there were more...
Reaching down, she cautiously tugged around the edges of the crumpled gown. She pulled back and straightened one of the sleeves but didn’t see anything. Then she gingerly examined the other sleeve. Sure enough, caught in the row of tightly gathered ruffles near the wrist of the sleeve were several more tiny slivers of glass. Like minuscule diamonds, they sparkled in the glare of the overhead light fixture.
As Charlotte stared at the gown, the overwhelming significance of her discovery hit her like a bolt of lightning. She drew in a sharp breath and felt blood roaring in her ears.
She’d wanted proof, but she’d also held out the tiniest bit of hope that she was mistaken, that Jackson’s murder was indeed a random act of burglary gone bad.
There was no mistake, though. Even without the prescription bottle and the washcloth, the nightgown, with its sleeve of glass slivers, would be all the proof that the police would need.
Charlotte’s stomach turned queasy. At least one of Judith’s theories was correct, she thought. The murder of Jackson Dubuisson was most definitely an inside job, an elaborate setup from the beginning.
From downstairs came the grating sound of the front-gate buzzer.
“Someone’s at the gate, Charlotte,” Clarice called out.
Charlotte glanced at her watch. Had to be the caterers, she thought. She took a steadying breath. Just keep cool. “I heard it,” she finally answered. “I’m on my way. In just a minute,” she added, pausing to glare at the nightgown.
Knowing that the consequences of what she was about to do would be staggering, once again indecision plagued her. Charlotte sighed wearily. Before she could change her mind, she pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and slipped the sliver of glass into the paper sack. Then she reached into the clothes hamper and carefully removed the gown. Once she’d placed it in the sack, too, she removed the gloves and stuffed them in her apron pocket. With the paper sack firmly in her grasp, she picked up her supply carrier and left the bathroom.
The short journey from the bathroom through Clarice’s bedroom took ten seconds at the most, but Charlotte could feel Clarice’s eyes on her, watching her every step of the way, as she briskly walked across the bedroom to the hallway door. Only when she reached the hallway, out of sight of the old lady’s curious gaze, did Charlotte remember to breathe.
Downstairs, Charlotte peeked out the entrance-door side light When she saw two uniformed delivery men standing at the gate, their arms loaded down with white boxes, she hit the RELEASE button for the gate, then opened the front door.
Once the men were inside, she led them back to the kitchen. After they had deposited the boxes on the countertops, the older of the two produced an itemized receipt, while the other man went back out for the rest of the delivery.
Charlotte hurriedly checked the items listed against the contents of the boxes. Once she was finally satisfied that everything that had been ordered had been delivered, she signed the receipt and handed it back to the man.
After the delivery men left, she made a quick trip to her van and loaded her cleaning supplies. It would soon be time for those who had attended the funeral to start arriving, so on her way back inside, she decided to leave the front gate ajar instead of locking it.
From that moment on, she was so caught up in hurrying to vacuum the parlor, then setting out and arranging the food in preparation for the influx of guests, that she didn’t have time to dwell on anything else but the task at hand.
She’d just finished filling the ice bucket when the peal of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. Hands on her hips, Charlotte glanced around the kitchen, then nodded with satisfaction.
In the dining room, she paused and looked around. Everything was ready. The food was out and properly displayed, and the downstairs half of the house was clean and orderly.
Charlotte hurried through the dining room to the foyer.
At the entrance door, she took a moment to straighten her apron. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
Her eyes widened with shock, and she gasped.
Chapter Nineteen
Standing in the doorway, his camera slung over his shoulder, was the newspaper reporter who had chased her down and harassed her.
Charlotte’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to interview Mrs. St. Martin.”
“To what!”
“Mrs. St. Martin,” he repeated. “I’m here to interview Mrs. Clarice St. Martin, the mother-in-law of the murder victim”
Charlotte shook her head. “No way!”
He shrugged. “Hey, lady, she called me.”
“She called—” Suddenly it all made sense, a strange, weird kind of sense. When she’d first seen Clarice all dressed up, she’d assumed the old lady wanted to look her best because of the people coming over after the funeral. She should have known better. Clarice didn’t give a hoot about what anyone who was supposedly mourning Jackson Dubuisson’s death thought despite what she’d said to the contrary. The old lady had dressed up for an interview with the newspaper reporter.
But why? Why would Clarice want to be interviewed? What did she hope to accomplish?
The best defense is an offence. The moment the old saying popped into Charlotte’s mind, she suddenly knew exactly - what Clarice hoped to accomplish. The old lady was shrewd and a bit crazy, she decided. Crazy like a fox. Charlotte figured Clarice was going to spout the same song and dance she’d given her about Brian O’Connor, but even if this was another attempt to shift suspicion to Brian, there was still the question as to how she knew to call this particular man?
Charlotte raised one imperious eyebrow. “You’re lying,” she accused, “lying through your teeth. I don’t believe for one second that Mrs. St. Martin called you.”
The reporter rolled his eyes upward. “Okay, okay, you got me dead to rights. She didn’t call me. I called her. But she agreed,” he quickly added.
Charlotte drew herself up to her full height. Clarice might be clever, but there was more than one way to skin a rabbit Or in this case, a fox, she thought as an idea began to form.
“Young man, do you know what day this is?”
He frowned in annoyance. “It’s Friday. So what?”
“So what indeed! Today is the funeral of Jackson Dubuisson. Any minute now, his friends and family will be arriving.”
The reporter’s frown deepened. “That can’t be,” he said. “The old lady—Mrs. St. Martin—She said the funeral was tomorrow—on Saturday. She was very insistent that I was to come today. Not that it matters,” he quickly injected. “One day is as good as another.”
Charlotte gave him a look of disgust. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t have any manners or respect for the dead. It’s people like you who give the news media a bad name.” She paused, then, in her most pitying tone, said, “And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Miss Clarice got the days mixed up. Senility is such a terrible disease. Poor thing. After all, she is getting on in years and tends to get confused now and then. If you know what I mean,” she added for emphasis.
“She’s senile?”
Charlotte simply shrugged, neither denying nor confirming the reporter’s assumption.
The sound of car doors slamming behind him momentarily diverted his attention, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“The funeral must be over,” Charlotte said, getting a bit nervous herself as her gaze shifted to a small crowd of people gathering just outside the gate. She needed to get rid of this pesky man, she thought, but how, without making a scene?
Then Charlotte spotted her niece making her way through the group of people. Though she wasn’t that surprised to see Judith, for it was a standard practice for the police to attend the funeral and the gathering after the funeral of a murder victim, she suddenly knew exactly how she could force the reporter to leave.
“Oh, there’s Ms. Monroe,” Charlotte said, careful to inject just the right amount of surprise in her voice. “She’s one of the police detectives assigned to this case, you know”
The reporter turned around to stare. “Detective? Which one?” he asked, unable to contain his excitement. “Do you think she would answer a couple of questions for me?”
Not if I know my niece, Charlotte thought as a sly smile pulled at her lips. “Why don’t we ask her and find out? Why, here she is now,” Charlotte said as her niece approached the steps leading up to the gallery.
“Good morning.”
Charlotte’s smile grew wider. “Good morning yourself. Judith, dear, this young man is a reporter and wants to ask you a few questions about poor Jackson’s murder.”
“He what?” Judith stopped midway up the steps, just long enough to glare at the reporter. “Of all the nerve!” Her eyes blazing with daggers, she stomped up the remaining steps. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re on private property, bub. Get lost now or I’ll run you in for trespassing.”
The look of defeat on the reporter’s face was poignant. Realizing he’d been had, he turned and glared at Charlotte. “Clever. Very clever,” he murmured.
With more guests arriving by the minute, Charlotte decided to station herself by the open door, just inside the foyer. As she greeted the guests and directed them to the dining room, Judith stood on the porch and made sure that the reporter left without harassing anyone.
“I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up here after the funeral,” she told Charlotte a few minutes later. “I’ve got a good mind to call the Times-Picayune and complain.”
“I’ve already called,” Charlotte said. “I spoke to Mary Johnson, and she—”
“Who’s Mary Johnson?” Judith interrupted.
“She’s the daughter of Claude and Lydia Johnson, who were longtime clients of mine before Claude retired. You know—the ones who own that old mansion near St. Charles and Louisiana Avenue. Mary is one of the Picayune’s managing editors. Anyway, when I described the man to Mary, she said my description fits a man they’ve had complaints about before. And get this. He’s not even a regular employee. He’s just a freelance reporter they buy stories from once in a while.”
“Well, that’s certainly good to know,” Judith said. “From our past dealings with the paper, the staff reporters have always been both courteous and cooperative. None of them would ever have pulled a stunt like that guy did today.”
Charlotte placed her hand on her niece’s arm. “You don’t know the half of it,” she said, thinking about Clarice. “But Judith,” she confided, “I need to talk to you about something urgent.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guests who had just arrived had moved into the dining room.
Satisfied that the last of the newest arrivals were gravitating toward the front parlor, she turned back to Judith. Out of the comer of her eye, just beyond her niece’s shoulder, she saw Judith’s partner coming up the sidewalk. Behind him were Jeanne and Anna-Maria, accompanied by James Doucet.
“Earth to Charlotte.”
Charlotte blinked. “Not now, hon. We’ll have to talk later—before you leave.” Charlotte didn’t want to give Jeanne or Anna-Maria any reason to become suspicious. Besides, telling Judith was one thing. Her niece would take her seriously. But even if Jeanne and Anna-Maria hadn’t chosen that moment to arrive, just the thought of explaining everything in front of Louis Thibodeaux made Charlotte’s nerves jump.
“It’s important,” Charlotte stressed, wondering what it was about the man that intimidated her so. “Extremely important,” she added, “so don’t leave without seeing me first”
“Aunt Charley—”
Charlotte firmly shook her head, then turned and fled toward the dining room.
Later, as Charlotte was gathering the dirty dishes out of the front parlor, Anna-Maria approached her. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and there was a look of sadness about her that almost broke Charlotte’s heart. Out of everyone concerned, Anna-Maria stood to lose the most when the truth came out.
“I know you’re busy,” the younger woman said, “but when I took a tray of food up to Grandmother, she asked me to tell you she needs to talk to you.”
Charlotte had a pretty good idea what Clarice wanted to talk about. By now the old lady was probably beside herself, wondering what had happened to her interview with the reporter.
Well, too bad, she thought. Clarice could just keep wondering for the time being.
“I don’t see how I can leave just now,” she told Anna-Maria, “but I’ll go up just as soon as I can.”
Anna-Maria nodded, and when she turned to walk away, Charlotte caught her by the arm.
“How are you doing, hon?”
Tears glistened in the younger woman’s eyes. “I guess okay,” she said. “It’s just—just hard.”
Before the day was over, it was going to get even harder, thought Charlotte as she fought to control the swift shadow of anger that suddenly swept through her. Anna-Maria was a complete innocent. Yet of everyone involved, she would be the one who suffered the most.
For once, Charlotte was at a loss for words. There was nothing she could say to ease the younger woman’s suffering now and no way of preparing her for the pain yet to come.
She pulled the younger woman into her arms and gave her a quick hug. “You hang in there,” she told her. “Stay strong.”
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