Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 01 - Maid For Murder p.03

Chapter Six
“ Who wa-was murdered?” Charlotte choked out the words as her stomach knotted and dread welled in her throat. Surely not Anna-Maria . . . so young . . . so lovely . . . so full of life. But not Jeanne, either, she prayed. Or Clarice. And though she had never especially liked Jackson, she certainly didn’t wish him dead, not murdered.
Such an ugly word, murder. Charlotte swallowed hard and tried to ignore the horrible mental images of violence swirling in her head.
“Who?” Charlotte repeated.
The officer shook his head. “Like I said before, ma’am, all I can tell you is there’s been a break-in and a murder.” His words were curt as he gestured toward the side street. “Move along now. You’re holding up traffic.”
One look at the unrelenting expression on the policeman’s face told Charlotte that even though he knew who the victim was, he wasn’t about to tell her. Further inquiries, she decided, would be a waste of time and energy.
Left with little choice but to do as he directed, she gripped the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking and guided her van down the side street, away from the cordoned-off area.
Still in a daze, she’d driven almost half a block when, just ahead, she spotted a parking space. It would be a tight fit, but ...
Making a split moment’s decision, she flicked on the right-turn signal. No way was she leaving, she decided with a stubborn set of her jaw. Not until she found out which one of the Dubuissons had been murdered.
Slowing the van as she neared the parking spot and ignoring the blare of horns from the line of vehicles behind her, she maneuvered the van into the opening.
During the short walk back to Jackson Avenue, Charlotte spotted three different vans caught in the long line of traffic, each representing a major New Orleans television station. By the time she reached the cordoned off area, a crowd had already gathered.
Gawkers, the whole lot of them, she thought in disgust. Strangers, with nothing better to do than feed off someone else’s misery. To them, the whole tragedy was simply entertainment, a brief diversion in their otherwise dull, boring existence. At least she had a real reason for being there, a personal stake in waiting around.
Charlotte didn’t have to wait long. A blue Ford Taurus pulled up beside the young police officer who was directing traffic. Inside the car, seated on the passenger side, was a woman. Though Charlotte was standing at the back of the crowd of gawkers and only caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, she would have recognized her anywhere.
A badge was flashed. Instead of the officer signaling for the blue Taurus to follow the diverted traffic, he allowed the driver to park beside a nearby police cruiser in the middle of the street.
Judith.
Charlotte’s hopes rose as her niece and a man climbed out of the blue car. Now she would finally get some answers.
Ignoring the grumbling and rude glares of the people she nudged out of her way, she shouldered her way through the crowd.
Judith Monroe was thirty years old, one of the youngest women ever to reach detective status in the New Orleans Police Department. In looks, Judith resembled her Aunt Charlotte more than she resembled her mother, and over the years, she’d often been mistaken for Charlotte’s daughter rather than her niece. Though she was taller than Charlotte, both had the same honey-brown-colored hair and the same cornflower-blue eyes.
“Judith!” Charlotte cried out. “Hey, Judith, wait up! Over here!”
When Judith hesitated, turned, and searched the crowd, Charlotte slipped between the two metal police barricades and waved her arms. Ignoring the shouts of the uniformed officer, she made a beeline for her niece.
But the policeman was younger and faster than Charlotte. He caught her before she reached her niece.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said as he grabbed her by the upper arm and jerked her to a standstill.
“But that’s my niece,” she argued, trying to pull free of the officer’s bruising grip while gesturing wildly at Judith with her free hand. “I have to talk to her.”
“Hey, Billy,” Judith called out as she hurried toward them. “Take it easy. That’s my aunt you’re manhandling.”
Charlotte glared up at the young officer. “See, I told you she was my niece.” When she tried once again to wrench free from his grip, he released her.
As Charlotte rubbed the red spot on her arm, stains of scarlet appeared on the officer’s cheeks. Holding up both his hands in a defensive gesture, he shrugged and backed away. “Hey, Judith, how was I to know she was your aunt?” he said. “I was only doing my job.”
Judith waved him away with a dismissive hand, then turned her attention to her aunt. “Aunt Charley, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Do you know that young man?”
Judith nodded. “That’s Billy Wilson. We’ve had a couple of dates.”
“Well, someone needs to teach him some manners.”
“Aunt Charley.” In an ominous tone, Judith drew out the pet name she’d always called her aunt, spacing the syllables evenly. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“The Dubuissons.” Charlotte gestured toward the old mansion. “I work for them on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I was on my way to work when, when—” Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed hard. A moment later she opened her eyes, blinking several times against the brightness. “Which one, Judith?” she whispered. “Which one of them was murdered?”
“Oh, Aunt Charley . . .” Judith slipped her arm around her aunt’s shoulder and squeezed gently in sympathy. Then, with a nudge, she guided her away from the crowd, toward the shade of a nearby oak that draped over the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you worked for the Dubuissons. But it was Jackson, Aunt Charley. Jackson Dubuisson was the one murdered.”
Though some of the tightness in Charlotte’s chest eased a bit, she still felt sick at heart for the Dubuisson women . . . Jeanne . . . Anna-Maria . . . And yes, even Clarice, despite the old woman’s rudeness and obstinacy. Losing a loved one or someone close was never easy under any circumstances, a fact she’d had to deal with personally more times than she cared to think about. But murder ...
“According to the preliminary reports,” Judith continued, “he was murdered sometime near midnight or early morning. His wife, Jeanne, was the one who found him in the library.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Oh, poor, poor Jeanne. How awful for her.”
“Yes, I’m sure it must be a terrible thing—”
“Hey, Monroe, you coming or what?”
Both women turned to face the man Charlotte had seen with her niece in the car.
“That’s Lou—Louis Thibodeaux,” Judith told her aunt. “Lou is my new partner till he retires at the end of the year.”
Though Judith’s new partner was a stocky man with gray hair and a receding hairline, Charlotte noted that for an older man, he was somewhat attractive in a rugged sort of way. At least his belly didn’t hang over his belt like so many men her age, she thought.
“Go ahead, Lou,” Judith called out. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Louis nodded, and Judith turned her attention back to her aunt. “I need to get to work now. You gonna be okay?”
Charlotte shrugged. “It’s just such a shock.”
“Do you need me to walk you to your van?”
“No.” Charlotte firmly shook her head. “What I need is to see Jeanne Dubuisson, to talk to her.”
Judith frowned, her expression filled with regret. “Oh, Aunt Charley, I can’t let you do that, not yet. Go on home for now.”
“But you don’t understand. Jeanne has no one to—” Charlotte bit off the words spilling out of her mouth.
“What? No one to what? Aunt Charley.”
“Nothing.” Charlotte lowered her gaze. “Never mind,” she said, realizing that there was no way she could explain about Jeanne, no way to explain that she had no one to confide in or turn to in a crisis, no one except possibly her maid. No, she couldn’t explain, Charlotte decided, not without betraying the confidences that Jeanne had placed in her.
Charlotte tried another tack. “Surely you could bend the rules just this one time. I just need to talk to her for a moment, and I promise I won’t get in the way.”
“You know I can’t, Aunt Charley. Not even for you.”
One look at the strained expression on Judith’s face and remorse shot through Charlotte. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. It’s just that— that—” Charlotte shrugged, at a loss for words. How could she explain when she didn’t quite understand it herself?
“It’s just that you care about them,” Judith offered softly, gently.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes—yes I do.” She paused. “Maybe you could at least pass along a message for me. Would that be okay?”
Judith nodded. “I think that would be just fine.”
“Just tell Jeanne to call me if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all.”


Charlotte was used to staying busy. Since she had worked Saturday for Bitsy, she had expected to be off on Tuesday, her regular day to clean for the old lady. But she hadn’t expected to be off two days in a row, and she found herself at a loss as to what to do.
For one thing, the house was quiet . . . too quiet. And lonely. Not even Sweety Boy’s antics and chirps seemed to help.
There was plenty that needed doing, though, projects she’d been putting off due to lack of time . . . recording and totaling the month’s receipts for tax purposes . . . taking inventory of her supplies . . . working on a bid for the Devillier job Cheré had told her about. And laundry, a large pile of dirty laundry that she’d had to ignore due to her unusually busy weekend, was still waiting for her beside her washing machine.
Charlotte tried to occupy both her time and her mind both days. Her daily thirty-minute walk helped somewhat, but concentration on anything for very long proved to be impossible. Her thoughts kept returning to the Dubuisson women. All she could think about was what Jeanne, Anna-Maria, and Clarice must be going through, how they were coping, and what, if anything, she could do to help ease their suffering.
But guilt plagued her, too, guilt for being so relieved that Jackson had been the victim instead of one of the women. And she kept remembering the last time she had seen Jackson alive. In her mind’s eye, she could still picture him dancing with Sydney Marriott on Friday night at the Zoo To Do, then, later, arguing with Sydney’s husband, Tony.
And during those two days, as she waited, she kept hoping that Jeanne would call, yet dreading it at the same time.
By Tuesday afternoon, her nerves were stretched to the limit. Each time the phone rang, she felt a fresh wave of apprehension sweep through her.
Deciding that she’d just about had all she could stand and that taking yet a second walk might relieve some of the tension, Charlotte was lacing up her tennis shoes when the phone rang.
Once again, hoping the caller was Jeanne, she rushed to the phone and snatched up the receiver.
“Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re home.”
Bitsy. It was only Bitsy Duhe, and Charlotte almost groaned out loud with frustration.
“Don’t you work for the Dubuissons?” the old lady asked.
Bitsy knew good and well that she worked for the Dubuissons, but Charlotte’s vast experience in dealing with the old lady had taught her a few tricks about handling her. “Now, Miss Bitsy, you know I don’t talk about my clients.”
“Oh, Charlotte, don’t be silly. Of course you talk about your clients. Why just Saturday you and I were discussing the Dubuissons.”
Bitsy paused dramatically, and Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. The temptation to point out that Bitsy had done all the discussing about the Dubuissons was strong. She was also tempted to point out that except for a couple of questions about Brian O’Connor, who wasn’t a client, she’d simply listened. But Bitsy didn’t give her the opportunity.
“And speaking of the Dubuissons,” she continued, “that’s the reason I’m calling. Did you hear about Jackson? It’s all over the news and made the front page of the Picayune.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, ma’am, I read the paper this morning.”
“Well, my goodness, Charlotte, give me the scoop. I figured if anybody knew anything, it would be you.”
Charlotte kept quiet on purpose and didn’t answer. If she knew Bitsy, whether she answered or not, the old lady would keep right on talking, anyway. And she wasn’t disappointed.
“The paper said a burglar broke in and killed him,” Bitsy continued. “But I’d be willing to bet, when all’s said and done, Tony Marriott was the one who did it, especially after that little show he put on Friday night. I’ve been thinking about calling the police myself—and you should think about it, too. After all, we were both eyewitnesses to that fight.”
Charlotte shook her head and had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that about a hundred other people witnessed the altercation, too.
“So how was your granddaughter’s visit,” Charlotte asked in hopes of changing the subject.
“Oh, it was fine, but listen, Charlotte, I can’t talk anymore right now. I think I’d better go ahead and make that call to the police. ‘Bye now.”
Before Charlotte had time to say anything, she heard the click on the other end of the phone line that indicated that Bitsy had hung up the receiver.


Charlotte took her walk, but it was just after the mechanical bird in the clock had finished singing the last of six cuckoos on Tuesday evening when the call from Jeanne finally came.


Chapter seven
“Oh, Jeanne, I’m so glad you called, and I’m so very sorry about Jackson.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.”
Though Charlotte wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected Jeanne to sound like, a puzzled frown crossed her face when she heard the calm, matter-of-fact tone of the younger woman’s voice.
“Are you okay?” Charlotte asked her.
“I think the standard answer is that I’m doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened. Something wasn’t right here, she thought. Was it possible that Jeanne might still be in shock? After all, what woman wouldn’t be after finding her husband murdered? And different people reacted to traumatic events in different ways.
Then another thought occurred to her. Maybe Jeanne had been given something, some type of medication, to keep her calm.
“The reason I’m calling,” Jeanne continued, “is to ask a favor. The police have finally finished gathering their evidence—thank God, they’re finally gone. But they’ve left a mess, and I don’t think I can—I just can’t—”
The break in her voice, followed by the ensuing silence, was telling, and Charlotte found that she was relieved to know that Jeanne wasn’t quite as cool or calm as she had first seemed. Surely, a certain amount of grief and emotion had to be healthier than keeping everything bottled up inside.
“I can come right over and clean it up for you if you need me to?” Charlotte offered.
A sigh of relief whispered through the telephone line, followed by a simple “Thank you.”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes will be fine, but I have to warn you, there are reporters all over the place. Maybe it would be best if you came in the back way.”


Charlotte spotted the reporters camped in front of the house the minute she turned onto Jackson Avenue. The way they were standing around, clustered in small groups, reminded her of paradegoers during Mardi Gras, the kind who always arrived early so they could stake claims on the most advantageous spots to watch the parades.
Deciding the best bet was to park on the next block, she kept driving. “Bunch of vultures,” she muttered as she drove past them. It was bad enough that the Dubuisson women had to cope with such a tragic loss, but to have to endure being held prisoners in their own home by the news media was the pits. Just the sight of the reporters made her angry enough to chew nails.
Still seething, Charlotte found a parking spot on Philip Street and grabbed her supplies. Ever wary of the reporters, she hurried down the street to the back entrance gate of the Dubuisson mansion.
The moment she pressed the buzzer on the gate, it clicked open, so she figured that Jeanne must have been watching for her from the kitchen window.
Looking dry-eyed and stoic, Jeanne was standing at the back door when Charlotte crossed the deck. In contrast to her expression, for the first time that Charlotte could remember in the five years she’d worked for the Dubuissons, Jeanne looked almost rumpled. Her makeup was sparse and blotchy, and though the casual olive slacks and ivory blouse she wore weren’t exactly wrinkled, the elegant, polished look that Charlotte had grown used to seeing was missing, all a sure sign of the turmoil that the poor woman had been through.
Charlotte almost reached out to Jeanne to give her a sympathetic hug, but she hesitated. One look at the rigid set of Jeanne’s shoulders along with the strained expression on her face made Charlotte change her mind. “How are Anna-Maria and Miss Clarice?” she asked gently instead.
The line of Jeanne’s mouth tightened. “Not well, I’m afraid.” She signaled for Charlotte to come inside the house. “Anna-Maria went into hysterics yesterday when she found out.” Jeanne firmly closed the door behind Charlotte and locked it. “The paramedics had to give her a shot to calm her down.” Her gaze shifted toward the ceiling, and for a moment, a tinge of sadness flickered in her eyes. “She’s upstairs in her room right now. Thank goodness she slept most of yesterday. But today was grueling, what with the police everywhere, asking all kinds of questions.”
“And Miss Clarice? Where is she right now?”
Jeanne drew in a deep breath and sighed wearily. Once again the lines of her mouth tightened. “In her bed,” she answered bluntly. As usual, she’s being her uncooperative self—refused to get up and has hardly touched a bite yesterday or today.”
As understanding slowly dawned on Charlotte, her heart went out to the younger woman. No wonder Jeanne seemed so cold and aloof. She was hanging on to her own emotions by a thread. With the other women in the family so distraught, someone had to hold things together, and unfortunately for Jeanne, she was the one elected.
Though Charlotte had never experienced having a loved one murdered, she had experienced a situation very similar to Jeanne’s when both her parents had died in a fatal airplane crash. Their deaths had left her with the total responsibility of caring for her sister, Madeline, then only fifteen, as well as Hank, who had been a toddler at the time. She could well remember that horrible, crushing feeling of being the person everyone else depended on.
“I’m afraid the police have left quite a mess.”
Jeanne’s words brought Charlotte back from thoughts of the past with a jolt, and she pushed away the painful memories, sealing them back into the compartment of her mind where they’d resided for more years than she cared to count. Past was past, and Charlotte had long ago discovered that in order to survive, she had to learn to live in the present.
“Where would you like me to start?” she asked.
“In the library.” Jeanne turned and led the way through the dining room and into the foyer. “The rest can wait until tomorrow,” she said as they walked down the hall toward the library. Halfway down the hallway, she suddenly stopped and turned to face Charlotte. “You will be coming tomorrow, won’t you?”
When Charlotte nodded a confirmation, Jeanne seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
At the doorway of the library though, Jeanne hesitated, just short of entering the room. “I—I’m not sure I can go in there,” she said, staring at the opening. “Th-that’s where it happened, where I found him. I didn’t even realize he hadn’t left for the office until I saw his briefcase still sitting on the floor in the foyer.”
Charlotte felt her throat tighten, and she reached out and squeezed Jeanne’s arm. “You don’t have to go in.”
Jeanne pulled her gaze away from the doorway, and her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head as if the action would hold the tears at bay. “Please,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists. “Just clean it all up.”
With one last entreating glance at Charlotte, she backed away, turned, then stumbled down the hallway.
Charlotte’s first instinct was to go after her just to make sure that she would be okay. But after she thought about it for a moment, she decided that the best course of action was simply to do as the poor woman had asked, to clean up the mess.
The moment Charlotte entered the room, she wrinkled her nose against the sour odor that hung in the air like an invisible layer of fog. Death . . . and violence, she suddenly realized with a shiver. What she was smelling was death and the violence that had precipitated it.
No wonder Jeanne couldn’t step foot in here, Charlotte thought as she gazed around the room. It was bad enough that the poor woman had been the one to find her husband murdered in the room. To make matters worse, the police had left the place in a mess.
Almost every surface in the small library was coated with a fine ashy film. Recalling the descriptions of the stuff from some of the police procedurals she’d read, she figured that the residue was the result of the police dusting for fingerprints.
Other than the fingerprint dust, one of the first things she noticed was the painting of the St. Louis Cathedral that hung between the built-in bookcases along the wall to her left. Instead of lying flat against the wall, the painting was sticking straight out, perpendicular to the wall.
Charlotte stepped over to the painting. Upon closer examination, she saw that it was hinged and hid a small wall safe; the door to the safe was open, and the safe itself was empty.
Funny, she thought. She’d known there was a safe somewhere in the house, and she’d dusted that particular painting many times. Even so, the hinges had been so well concealed that she never once suspected that it hid a wall safe. Whoever had installed it had done their job well.
She was still staring at the empty wall safe when a mosquito suddenly buzzed her head. When she swatted at the pesky insect, she noticed there were more flying around.
“What on earth—” She immediately searched for the source of their entry, and that was when she spotted the gaping black hole in the French door where one of the panes was missing. Small shards of glass littered the carpet in front of the doors, and as she stared at the hole, a terrifying realization washed over her. What she was looking at was the means of entry that had been used by the murderer.
Charlotte shivered and turned away to survey the room once again. She’d start with the desk first, she decided. Then she’d deal with the powder, glass, and the carpet.
The top of the desk was in shambles, with scattered papers, books, pens, several small framed photos, a collection of paperweights, and other odds and ends. In the midst of the clutter was a dark, uneven stain where it appeared that something had been spilled, then left to dry.
Charlotte began with gathering the papers. Only then did she notice that several of them were dotted with flecks of the same dark substance that was on the desk. As her gaze shifted between the papers in her hands and the stain on the desk, she suddenly realized what she was looking at.
Just clean it all up.
Charlotte shuddered with revulsion. No wonder Jeanne had fixated on the desk, she thought.
The dark stains had to be blood. Dried, congealed blood. Specifically Jackson Dubuisson’s blood, which could only mean one thing. Jackson must have been murdered at his desk. Even as her stomach turned queasy, an eerie prickle of awareness marched down her spine.
Just being near the desk was dreadful enough. Charlotte had to force herself to continue sorting through the bloodstained papers. Then she stacked the papers, along with the other items, in neat piles on the floor.
Armed with a small pail of warm, sudsy water, and rubber gloves, she scrubbed the desktop thoroughly. As she scrubbed, she tried to ignore the images flashing through her mind of Jackson slumped over the desk, his life’s blood oozing from what could only have been a fatal head wound of some kind. And she tried to ignore the persistent whispers in the back of her mind, whispers that felt important, seemed even urgent, yet remained elusive.
But ignoring the images and the whispers proved almost impossible. By the time she’d rinsed and dried the desktop, then applied a coat of lemon oil and polished the wood, her hands were trembling.
After restoring the desk back to order, she found that the rest of her task was almost a relief. Once she’d completely dusted and wiped away all signs of the fingerprint powder, she gingerly picked up the larger pieces of broken glass and deposited them into a wastebasket.
Finally, all that remained to be done was to vacuum the carpet and she’d be finished. Then maybe, just maybe, the horrible, violent images that kept swimming in her mind and the urgent whispers would disappear.
But vacuuming would be noisy. And though the noise wouldn’t disturb anyone upstairs, she wasn’t exactly sure where Jeanne was at the moment.
Charlotte quickly walked through the downstairs rooms, searching for Jeanne’s whereabouts. The last room she looked in was the back parlor. It was there that she finally located Jeanne, slumped over in a chair near the fireplace, her eyes closed and her breathing deep and even.
Poor thing must be exhausted, she thought as she tiptoed into the room and gently covered Jeanne with the crocheted afghan that was kept in a wicker basket near the sofa.
When Charlotte quietly left the room, she decided that closing the doors to the parlor as well as closing off the library doors should muffle the sound of the noisy vacuum. After all, there was no sense in waking Jeanne until she was finished.
Though it wasn’t the dirtiest or the messiest job Charlotte had ever tackled, cleaning up the library where Jackson had been murdered was by far the most horrible job she had ever been asked to do. Even so, once she’d vacuumed, all in all, it had only taken her a little over an hour to return the room back to order.
The only remaining problem was the gaping hole in the door. Charlotte decided that a piece of thick cardboard taped over the hole would have to suffice until Jeanne could call in someone to repair the broken glass pane. At least tape and cardboard might be enough to keep out the mosquitoes and bugs.
Charlotte had to rummage through almost every drawer in the kitchen before she finally located a roll of masking tape in the last drawer beneath the built-in oven. But where on earth was she going to find a piece of cardboard?
Then she remembered. In her van was a cardboard box that might be large enough to use. She should be able to cut off a piece that would be just about the right size.
The sudden peal of the doorbell in the quiet house gave Charlotte a start. With a frown of irritation and hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Jeanne just yet, she dropped the tape into the deep pocket of her apron and hurried from the kitchen.
The ornate oak entry door, with its insets of narrow, leaded glass panels, was framed on either side by cut-glass window lights. Through the window light on her right, Charlotte recognized her niece’s partner, Louis Thibodeaux. “Now what?” she muttered as she unlocked and opened the door.
Standing beside the detective was her niece. Behind the two detectives was a uniformed policeman. Judith frowned the moment she saw Charlotte; then she entered the foyer. Thibodeaux and the other man trailed after her.
“Aunt Charley, what are you doing here?”
Charlotte closed the door behind them, then faced her niece.
“Jeanne called me to clean up the mess your people left in the library.”
Louis Thibodeaux’s dark eyebrows shot up. “She did what?” His voice was a growl of disbelief as he glared at Charlotte as if she were a bug in need of squashing. Beside him, Judith groaned.
Charlotte glared right back at her niece’s partner, not liking his tone or attitude one bit. “I don’t think I stuttered, Detective Thibodeaux.”
“Great! That’s just wonderful,” he said, each word dripping with sarcasm.
An uneasy feeling washed through Charlotte as she stared first at Louis Thibodeaux, then at her niece.
Judith narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “Did you, Aunt Charley? Did you clean it up yet?”
When Charlotte slowly nodded, the affirming answer brought on another round of groans from both detectives as well as the uniformed policemen.
“Didn’t you see the yellow crime-scene tape across the door?” But before Charlotte could answer, Judith answered her own question. “Of course you didn’t, because Jeanne had probably already removed it.”
The dire implication wasn’t lost on Charlotte. If Jeanne had removed the crime-scene tape and directed Charlotte to clean up the library, then she must have something to hide. And if she had something to hide, did she also have something to do with Jackson’s murder?
Charlotte shook her head in denial, but before she could protest aloud, Jeanne suddenly emerged from the back parlor.
“What’s going on out here, Charlotte?” she asked. “Who’s—” Jeanne froze, and her face clouded over with a look of pure distaste. “Why are these people back again?”
All eyes had turned toward Jeanne, but Louis Thibodeaux was the one who spoke first. “Mrs. Dubuisson, I’m afraid you’re in a lot of trouble.”


Chapter Eight
For long seconds, Jeanne simply stared at the detective and made no response.
No matter what the implications, Charlotte refused to believe that Jeanne could have had anything to do with Jackson’s murder. She was sure that there had to be a rational explanation for the misunderstanding about the crime-scene tape.
Louis Thibodeaux advanced menacingly toward Jeanne. “Why?” he asked, his eyes narrowing to dark slits. “Why would you purposely have that room cleaned when you knew we were coming back for one last look? Why—unless you have something to hide? What are you trying to cover up, Mrs. Dubuisson?”
Charlotte had every intention of staying put to hear Jeanne’s explanation, but at that moment, Judith caught her eye. There was a look of warning on her niece’s face, and with a sharp jerk of her head toward the dining room, she indicated that Charlotte should make herself scarce.
Feeling somewhat like a rat deserting the ship, Charlotte grudgingly left the foyer. She was almost to the kitchen before she heard Jeanne finally answer the detective.
“No one said anything about coming back,” Jeanne told him, her voice cold and blunt. “Besides, I was told they were finished.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t remember—one of the officers.”
“Which one?”
In the kitchen, Charlotte hovered just inside the kitchen doorway. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of missing the ensuing argument between Jeanne and Judith’s partner.
“There was no crime-scene tape.” Jeanne insisted. “And how many times do I have to tell you that no one told me I shouldn’t go in there.”
Louis Thibodeaux’s voice was a low rumble, and Charlotte couldn’t make out exactly what he’d said in response, but she had no trouble hearing Jeanne’s shrill retort.
“Stop it!” she cried. “No more questions, no more of your accusations, not without my lawyer.”


From that point on, nothing but the sound of low murmurs came from the foyer. Unable to determine what was being said, Charlotte was almost ready to give up trying when she saw her niece appear around the corner, where the dining room opened onto the foyer, and stride purposefully toward her.
When Judith reached the kitchen doorway, she took Charlotte firmly by the arm and led her farther into the kitchen. “You should go on home now, Aunt Charley,” she said, her voice low and urgent
“But what about Jeanne? I think I should stay here until her lawyer comes.”
Judith shook her head. “There’s no need. Her lawyer isn’t coming tonight. He’s instructed her not to answer any more questions until tomorrow morning, when he can meet her at the station.” She narrowed her eyes. “And get that stubborn look off your face, Auntie. Given the mood Thibodeaux’s in, I—well I don’t want to have to lock horns with him tonight over my aunt’s part in this fiasco. Someone screwed up royally, and heads are gonna roll over this one. I just don’t want it to be your head. And you know the old saying. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Charlotte wanted to argue but knew that Judith was only trying to protect her, and she certainly didn’t want to cause her niece any problems or have to deal with her rude partner. “I’ll leave,” she finally relented, “but only if you promise to call me later.”
Judith shrugged. “I’ll try, Aunt Charley, but I really can’t promise. Oh, yeah, and another thing. If you haven’t already done so, for now—for the duration of this investigation—I’d just as soon you didn’t tell Mrs. Dubuisson that we’re related. Believe me, it’s better for everyone concerned if she doesn’t know.”


Judith never did call that night. Charlotte finally crawled into bed and turned off the bedside lamp at around eleven. After an hour of tossing and turning, her four-poster bed began to feel like a torture chamber; she felt every lump in the old mattress. With a groan and a vow that just as soon as she got a few extra dollars, a new mattress was going to the top of her list of things to replace, she switched the lamp back on.
She tried to read for a while, hoping that doing so would help relax her enough to sleep. But each time she grew drowsy and turned off the lamp, visions of the bloodstained desk, along with the argument between Jeanne and the detective, swam through her head.
Reading about such things in mystery novels was one thing, but now, having actually experienced it, gave Charlotte a whole new appreciation for what her niece had to contend with on a day-by-day basis.
And so it went throughout the long, restless night. Consequently, when her alarm finally jangled the following morning, her head ached, and she could barely open her eyes.
Logic said that a good brisk walk would help clear her head. But Charlotte was in no mood for logic, and after hitting the snooze alarm twice, with a groan she finally forced herself to climb out of bed. By then there was barely enough time to dress, and she had to settle for a quick cup of instant coffee instead of waiting for a whole pot to brew.


Because of the reporters still camped out in front of the house, Jeanne met Charlotte at the back door again. Charlotte noticed that in contrast to the night before, there was no rumpled look about Jeanne this morning; yet even though she was dressed impeccably, complete with flawless makeup, a navy silk suit, and every hair in place, there was a weariness about her eyes that not even makeup could conceal.
“I have to leave for a while,” she told Charlotte once they were inside. “I have some business that needs tending, and I—I also have to make funeral arrangements. For when they release Jackson’s body,” she added.
Charlotte set her supply carrier on the floor. Though she was well aware that Jeanne’s so-called business included a trip to the police station, she recalled Judith’s warning about revealing their relationship, so she simply nodded in response.
Jeanne shifted from one foot to the other, started to say something else, but hesitated. Then, as if gathering her courage, she straightened her shoulders. “I truly appreciate you coming last night,” she said. “And I want to apologize for the misunderstanding with the police.” She sighed deeply. “But I also need to ask another favor of you.”
A sudden rush of sympathy for the younger woman gushed through Charlotte. With virtually no friends and little family left, Jeanne had no one she could turn to, no one but the maid. How sad that had to be for someone of her social status, someone who appeared to have everything that money could buy but no one to depend on in a crunch. Was it any wonder that she found it hard to ask for help?
Charlotte reached out, caught Jeanne’s hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re welcome,” she said softly. “No apologies necessary, and I’ll be happy to do whatever I can to help out.”
Jeanne attempted a smile, but the telltale quiver of her bottom lip betrayed her. “Thank you,” she whispered. She cleared her throat as if the action would banish the strong emotion evident in her eyes. “James called late last night,” she said. “He insisted that Anna-Maria should spend the day with him. At first, she didn’t want to go anywhere, but he talked her into it. And frankly, I’m relieved. She needs his support now more than ever.”
“Her fiancé sounds like a really nice young man.” Charlotte offered.
“Yes,” Jeanne nodded. “Yes, he is. He also offered to come with us to the funeral home later this morning. But with Anna-Maria gone and now I have to leave, well . . . I—I need someone to look in on Mother. There’s a service I could call,” she hastened to add, “one that specializes in sitting with elderly people, but when I mentioned it, Mother pitched a fit.”
Charlotte held up her hand. “Don’t say another word. I’ll be happy to check on Miss Clarice for you while you run your errands.”

Before Jeanne left, she brought down the wicker tray she used when she served Clarice her meals. From the looks of the food left in the dishes, the old lady had barely touched her breakfast.
“I’m worried about her,” Jeanne confided. “If she keeps this up, I’ll have to call her doctor.”
“I’ll watch her,” Charlotte reassured the younger woman. “She’s going to be just fine. Now run along and take care of your business.”
Jeanne nodded, collected her purse and keys, and left through the back door.
Charlotte stood in the doorway and watched her cross the deck. After she’d closed and locked the door, it suddenly occurred to her that Jeanne’s car was parked in the front driveway. She couldn’t quite picture Jeanne catching the city bus or walking all the way to St. Charles to catch the trolley just to avoid the reporters.
Maybe she called a taxi, Charlotte thought as she peered out the window overlooking the backyard. But when a Ford Explorer instead of a taxi pulled up beside the back gate and Jeanne got inside, Charlotte grew even more curious.
She caught a quick glimpse of the driver when Jeanne opened the passenger door, but she didn’t recognize the sandy-haired man due to the distance and the tinting of the vehicle’s windows. So who was the driver? Charlotte wondered as she turned away from the window.
The answer came in a flash, and Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Her lawyer. “Of course, you silly woman,” she murmured. The man had to be Jeanne’s lawyer.


Charlotte decided that the best place to start cleaning was in the kitchen.
Though the Dubuissons’ house was never really dirty, Charlotte had worked out a schedule of sorts to keep it that way. Mondays were for general cleaning, which included dusting, mopping, vacuuming, and laundry. Wednesdays were reserved for the deeper cleaning: baseboards, inside windows, and the refrigerator. Fridays were much like Mondays, except on Fridays, Charlotte always put fresh sheets on all of the beds.
Charlotte removed several small dishes of leftover food from the refrigerator. Then she wiped down the inside and rearranged the contents. As lagniappe, a little extra service she liked to provide, she made a list of condiments that needed replenishing. To the list she added eggs, bacon, and milk.
Once she’d wiped down the outside of the refrigerator with a degreaser, she decided it was time to check on Clarice.
She climbed the stairs and approached the old lady’s room. She’d expected to hear the television, but for once there was no canned laughter or clapping from a TV audience, the usual sounds of the game programs that Clarice always watched.
From the doorway, she saw that the television set was silent and dark. And so was the rest of the room. All of the blinds were closed, and the curtains were drawn. Only tiny slivers of morning light peeped between the closed slats of the blinds, just enough for Charlotte to make out Clarice’s huddled form beneath the covers on her bed.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim room. As she continued staring at the huddled form, she was finally able to detect movement indicating that the old lady was still breathing. Clarice was probably just fine, Charlotte figured. But with an older person, one could never be sure. Maybe she should take a closer look just to be sure. After all, she had promised Jeanne she would check on her mother for her.
Charlotte was halfway to the bed when she heard the sounds . . . sobs . . . low, muffled sobs.
Under other circumstances, she might have assumed that the old lady was simply grieving over the death of her son-in-law, but after hearing Clarice and Jeanne’s argument and her talk with Jeanne on Friday, Charlotte found it hard to believe Jackson’s death could be the reason for Clarice’s tears.
“Miss Clarice?” Charlotte stepped closer to the bed. “What’s wrong?” She reached out and touched what she thought was the old lady’s shoulder. “Are you ill? Are you in pain?”
“Go-go a-away,” the old lady whimpered, cringing beneath Charlotte’s touch. “Just leave me alone.”
Charlotte withdrew her hand and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Should she leave? Or should she stay? What if the old lady was ill and didn’t know what she was saying? What if she left her and Clarice had another stroke?
“I don’t think I can,” she finally said. “I don’t think I can leave you like this, Miss Clarice. Won’t you please tell me what’s wrong?”
Then a thought occurred to her. Maybe Clarice had had a change of heart. Maybe now that Jackson was dead, she was having trouble coping with her feelings about him. “Sometimes sharing things makes a burden lighter,” Charlotte said gently.
From beneath the covers came a loud snort followed by
Clarice’s muffled voice. “And sometimes sharing makes great fuel for gossip, eh, Charlotte? Be sure and tell all your friends about poor old crippled Clarice, locked away in her room, grieving for her dead son-in-law.”
“I don’t gossip,” she told the old lady bluntly. Clarice’s accusation stung and insulted the very principle that Charlotte had upheld for years, but rather than being affronted, she found herself amused. At times, Clarice reminded her of a child, one minute crying, the next, pitching a temper tantrum.
Charlotte reached down and switched on the bedside lamp.
Suddenly, Clarice threw back the covers and struggled to sit up. “I don’t want that light on,” she cried, promptly switching it off.
But in that brief moment, Charlotte got a good look at the old lady, and what she saw was a shock. Clarice appeared haggard and unkempt. The old lady’s thin hair was a tangle of dirty gray wisps, there were dark circles around her rheumy eyes, and the front of her wrinkled nightgown was spotted with what appeared to be food stains.
“And I ain’t grieving,” Clarice shouted. “Not for that worthless piece of—”
“Miss Clarice! Shame on you. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” she told her.
“I’ll speak any way I want to speak. Besides, none of it matters anymore.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and a sob caught in her throat. “It-it’s all going to hell in a hand basket, anyway. Everything that Andrew tried to do.” She bowed her head and began to shake it from side to side as she clutched the sheet in her hands. “It-it’s all th-that O’Connor boy’s fault. If he’d just stayed where he belonged, none of this would be happening.”
Charlotte frowned. “O‘Connor? Brian O’Connor?”
“He did it,” Clarice moaned. “Just as sure as I’m sit’n here, he did it Sneaking around down on the porch ... think’n nobody knows he’s down there snoop’n around, spying. Well, I know—know all about what he’s been up to.”
Charlotte could hardly believe her ears. What’s more, she wasn’t sure just how much of the old lady’s ramblings she should believe. Clarice never went downstairs, so how could she know that anyone was on the porch? “Miss Clarice, are you saying that Brian O’Connor killed Jackson?”
“Who else?” she cried. “Ever since that summer he was here helping his daddy with the gardens, he wanted my Jeanne. Hated Jackson ’cause she married him instead.”
Suddenly, a moan erupted from the old lady’s lips, a moan of pure anguish that sent chills chasing up Charlotte’s arms.
“Oh, my poor, poor Anna-Maria,” she sobbed. “What’s she gonna do when she finds out she’s got a murderer for a daddy.”
Charlotte frowned, finding it harder and harder to follow Clarice’s irrational ravings. “But Jackson’s the one who was murdered, so how could he be the murderer?”
“No, no, no!” Clarice jerked her head from side to side, emphasizing each word. “Not Jackson, you ninny. Brian O’Connor. He’s Anna-Maria’s real daddy.”
Shock waves washed over Charlotte, and she was stunned speechless. Brian O’Connor was Anna-Maria’s father?
But Clarice hadn’t finished, it seemed, and Charlotte could do nothing but stand there and listen. While she was truly mesmerized by what the old lady was revealing, Clarice’s logic was baffling. She’d accused Charlotte of being a gossip, yet here she was now, telling her all the family secrets. Maybe Jeanne was right, after all. Maybe the old lady was going senile.
“He thought he was so smart,” Clarice continued. “But my Andrew was smarter. That stupid boy actually thought he could get that airhead daughter of mine to run off with him—and she probably would have, too, if Andrew hadn’t of stopped him. Stopped him good, too. No one ever defied Andrew and got away with it. He had that boy’s butt thrown in jail.
“But chickens come home to roost,” Clarice added. “They always do.” She sniggered. “Or maybe I should say roosters. That O’Connor boy just couldn’t stay away. And Jackson got his. Serves him right, too.” She suddenly laughed. “The Good Book says that the love of money is the root of all evil. Well, my Andrew loved money, and so did Jackson. Andrew used it to threaten Jeanne and used it to bribe Jackson. Told Jackson if he’d marry Jeanne and pretend that Anna-Maria was his baby, he’d make him a partner.” Clarice laughed again, a maniacal sound that gave Charlotte the creeps. “And now look at the both of them. Both dead. And what good’s all that money now?”
Both dead ... both dead ... Charlotte shivered. The persistent whispers she’d heard in her mind from the night before were back, and so was the eerie prickle of awareness. But like the night before, when she’d first realized that Jackson had died at his desk, the whispers were just as elusive now as they had been then. And now, as she had last night, Charlotte tried once again to ignore them.
“You’re right,” she told Clarice, hoping she could calm her. “The money’s not much good to either of them now.”
Charlotte should have let it drop right then and there. For the sake of keeping the old lady calm, she should have completely changed the subject. Yet in spite of her good intentions, her curiosity was aroused, and she found she couldn’t simply drop it. Too many unanswered questions crowded her mind, demanding answers.
“Just one thing, though, Miss Clarice. I’m curious. Later on, after Brian got out of prison, why didn’t Jeanne simply divorce Jackson and go off with him, especially after Mr. Andrew’s death?”
Clarice covered a yawn even as she shook her head. “Too late by then,” she mumbled, leaning her head back against the pillows. “By then, Anna-Maria thought Jackson was her daddy, and Jackson threatened Jeanne. Told her if she ever left him, he’d make sure that little girl found out who her real daddy was, said he’d tell her all about how her real daddy was nothing but a no-account jailbird, then he’d tell everyone else.”
Charlotte shuddered inwardly. Only a truly cruel man would even threaten something so mean and contemptible.
The old lady yawned again, and her eyes drifted shut. “Truth ever came out, my Anna-Maria would never be able to take her rightful place in New Orleans society.” Clarice sighed, then murmured. “Be too big a scandal. Nobody suitable would have married her.”
As Charlotte stood there, trying to absorb all that Clarice had revealed, the old lady’s breathing slowed until it became deep and even. But her last words kept swirling through Charlotte’s head. Nobody suitable would have married her.... Nobody suitable would have married her.... The more she thought about the implications of such a statement, the angrier she grew.
Just like Jeanne, Charlotte had never married the father of her child, so did that make him unsuitable? According to Clarice’s screwed-up standards, it did. Never mind that he was a devoted, loving son. Never mind that his morals were above reproach. And never mind that he had become a well-respected, much sought-after surgeon, a doctor who people entrusted their very lives to.
Charlotte glared at the old lady, now fast asleep and completely oblivious to the turmoil her careless words had caused. Why was she letting such hogwash get to her? she wondered even as she reminded herself that Clarice’s priorities were not only way off but out-and-out wrong.
Having come from working-class people, Charlotte had never been a part of, nor had she been able to understand, all of the rites of passage connected with so-called New Orleans wealthy society. Coming-out parties, the debutante thing, all designed to showcase young women of wealth, to parade them in front of young men who were their so-called contemporaries. To Charlotte, it was a lot of rigmarole that amounted to nothing truly important.
Love, responsibility, family, and friends were what was truly important Putting food on the table and paying the bills were important. And above all, one’s faith in God was the most important.
Clarice emitted a raunchy snore, and a slow smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. People like Clarice, people of wealth and social standing, were no better than anyone else. They just had more money. So why were they held in such esteem by those who had less money? The love of money is the root of all evil.
Charlotte grimaced. No truer words were ever written. Of course, to be fair, she thought, she supposed that if she’d grown up on the other side of the fence, she might feel very differently about the importance of such things.
Charlotte tiptoed out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. She might feel differently, but she couldn’t imagine that she actually would. She was simply too practical-minded. Always had been.
From behind the closed door, the old lady snored peacefully. Outside in the hallway, Charlotte fretted over what Clarice had revealed.
Was any of it true? Or was it all simply the fabrications of a confused old lady? Was Brian O’Connor truly Anna-Maria’s father instead of Jackson? Could he have murdered Jackson in cold blood as some sort of retribution for the past? Men had killed for a lot less.
But why now? Why, so many years later?
Charlotte thought about calling her niece and telling her what Clarice had said about Brian O’Connor. Then she thought about all of the questions Judith would be obligated to ask, questions that could prove both embarrassing as well as stressful to Jeanne, especially if none of it was true.
And proof. Judith would want some kind of proof. But short of asking Jeanne to confirm or deny what Clarice had revealed, there was no way of proving that the old lady was telling the truth. Judith would more than likely write it off as simply the ramblings of an embittered, senile old woman.
No, Charlotte finally decided. She just couldn’t do that to Jeanne. Not only would doing such a thing be a betrayal of confidence, but telling tales on clients was highly unprofessional, in Charlotte’s opinion. Besides, even if she asked Jeanne, more than likely she would deny everything, especially if what Clarice had said were true and she had sacrificed herself by settling for a loveless marriage so that she could protect her daughter’s paternity. Jeanne already had enough to contend with, anyway, she decided.
With a heavy sigh, Charlotte trudged down the hallway. As long as she was already upstairs, she could make a start at cleaning the other bedrooms.
When Charlotte entered Anna-Maria’s room, she was shocked at what she saw. Normally, the girl was tidy and took pride in both her surroundings and her appearance, but the pink-and-white princess room, as Charlotte thought of it, looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.
Several pairs of jeans, a pile of T-shirts, along with an array of lacy bras and panties, were strewn across the floor near the closet. The embroidered silk duvet was in a jumble on the bed, spilling onto the floor. On the dresser was a collection of dirty glasses and mugs. The mugs were empty, but a couple of the glasses still contained a dark liquid that she suspected was Coke, since that was Anna-Maria’s drink of choice. Charlotte counted four plates stacked together on the floor in front of the dresser. The top plate had a half-eaten slice of pizza on it, and from the uneven way the plates beneath were stacked, she suspected they still contained food, too.
By the time that Charlotte finished cleaning Anna-Maria’s room, it was almost noon, time for lunch, and she almost panicked. With Jeanne gone, it would be up to her to fix Clarice’s noonday meal.
After a quick peek at the old lady, Charlotte hurried down the stairs, her hands filled with the dirty glasses and dishes from the girl’s room.
Thank goodness Clarice was still sleeping, she thought. Maybe she would have time to come up with something really appetizing for her, something that would entice her to eat. And wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for Jeanne, for her to know that her mother was finally eating again.
But what to fix? she wondered. What would Clarice be more likely to eat? Charlotte was almost to the kitchen door when she heard a noise and suddenly froze.
Someone was in the kitchen.
Visions of the broken pane of glass in the library and the bloodstains on the desk danced in her head. She gripped the dishes tighter to keep them from rattling.