Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 01 - Maid For Murder p.04

Chapter Nine
Charlotte fought down the panic that was making her legs weak. Should she stay, or should she run? And if she ran, then what about Clarice?
She wanted to run. Oh, how she wanted to run, screaming into the streets. But there was no way in good conscience that she could leave the poor defenseless old lady at the mercy of the intruder.
The police. What she needed to do was call for help ... call 911. A phone. Where was the closest telephone, the one that was farthest away from the kitchen?
Her eyes glued to the kitchen doorway, Charlotte slowly took a step backward. If she could just get to the back parlor without alerting the intruder, then—
Charlotte froze when she heard footsteps from the kitchen ... decisive footsteps headed her way.
“Who’s out there?” a voice called out.
Jeanne’s voice. No intruder. Just Jeanne.
Relief washed over Charlotte like a warm spring shower. “It’s Charlotte. Jeanne, it’s just me.”
Jeanne stepped into the doorway. “My goodness, Charlotte! What are you doing sneaking around out here? I thought you were upstairs. You gave me a terrible fright.”
“That makes two of us,” Charlotte quipped. “I heard a noise in the kitchen and thought—Well, I thought—”
“You thought, and I thought—”
Charlotte nodded. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I was just on my way to fix lunch for Miss Clarice.” She nodded at the wicker tray Jeanne was holding. “But I see that you beat me to it.”
“Yes—yes I did, and I’m the one who should apologize. I should have let you know I was home again. How is Mother, by the way?”
Charlotte hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other one. Now would be the time to tell Jeanne about the things that her mother had said. Jeanne really needed to know. But one look at the shadows of fatigue beneath the younger woman’s eyes and she knew she couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t add to her worries, not right now.
“She was still sleeping a few minutes ago when I looked in on her,” Charlotte told her instead. “And speaking of sleep. When was the last time you slept? You look really tired.”
Jeanne shrugged, then shifted her gaze to stare at the floor. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever sleep again,” she said. “And I am tired.”
“Of course you are, you poor thing.” It was bad enough that Jeanne had to cope with her husband being murdered and deal with making arrangements for his funeral, but she’d also had to contend with being questioned by the police like some ordinary criminal as well, thanks to Judith and Louis Thibodeaux. “Anyone would be tired after going through what you’ve had to go through,” Charlotte told her gently. “Tell you what.” She set the glasses and dishes she was holding down on the dining-room table. “Why don’t you let me carry that tray up for you and you go take a nice long nap.” She reached to take the tray from the younger woman, but Jeanne shook her head no.
“That’s very kind of you,” Jeanne said, “but there’s something I have to discuss with Mother ... something that I really need to take care of first.”
Charlotte let her hands fall to her sides, and she stepped back. “Well, if you’re sure ...”
Jeanne gave her a weary smile. “At this point, I’m not really sure about anything.”
“All the more reason you need to rest,” Charlotte insisted.
Jeanne sighed. “I know you mean well, and there’s nothing I would like more right now. But you know what they say—no rest for the weary. Maybe later, though—after I make sure that Mother eats. Then maybe I’ll lie down for a while. But I do appreciate your concern,” she added.
Charlotte knew when she was beaten, knew when to give in. “In that case”—she turned and picked up the dishes she’d set on the table—“I’ll just put these in the dishwasher, then I’ll go ahead and clean your bedroom. That way I won’t have to disturb you when you do decide to rest.”
A few minutes later, when Charlotte entered the master suite, one quick glance around the room told her that cleaning it wouldn’t take long. In comparison to Anna-Maria’s room, the suite was inordinately neat. In fact, except for one of Jackson’s shirts tossed carelessly across the foot of the bed and a pair of his shoes on the floor near the dresser, the room looked almost exactly the same as she’d left it after cleaning on Friday, as if no one had occupied the room since then.
“Now that’s strange,” she murmured, gazing at the king-sized bed.
Only one side of the bed had been slept in. The left side. Jackson’s side. Charlotte knew it was Jackson’s side because it was next to the alarm clock, and she’d once overheard Jeanne talking and laughing with Anna-Maria about how Jackson insisted on sleeping next to the alarm clock, since she had a bad habit of turning it off instead of hitting the snooze button.
The other side of the bed, Jeanne’s side, was unused. The comforter was still smooth and in place, as were the pillow shams and throw pillows.
So where had Jeanne slept?
She could understand that after Jackson’s murder it might have been too painful for Jeanne to sleep in the same bed that she’d shared with her husband. Even now, some forty-odd years later, Charlotte still couldn’t pass the Pontchartrain Hotel without having qualms.
The one and only time she’d ever slept with Hank’s father had been in that hotel. Unlike Jeanne, she didn’t know what it was like to sleep with a man for almost a lifetime or even have a husband. And though she’d never regretted that one night of indiscretion for a moment, nor had she regretted the results of that night, just looking at the place conjured up painful memories of what could have been ... what should have been, if not for a foolish war.
For years after his death, she’d fantasized about how her life might have been if he’d lived. In her dreams, she’d pictured a perfect marriage, one patterned after that of her own parents, one of a loving, caring couple with the same aims and goals. Only as she’d grown older had she come to realize that reality and fantasies rarely meshed. Her parents’ marriage had been the rare exception to the rule, from what she’d seen.
Just because one person loved another didn’t mean they were necessarily suited to marriage. Her son had loved his ex-wife; her sister had claimed to love both of her ex-husbands. And just because a couple were wealthy and socially compatible didn’t guarantee everlasting happiness or harmony, not if Clarice and Jeanne’s marriages were gauges to measure by.
Charlotte sighed deeply and shook her head in an attempt to shake loose the grip of her painful past. Wondering or even speculating whether she and Hank senior would have had a successful marriage was a waste of time and energy. She’d do better to concentrate on the present instead of the past.
Charlotte stared at the bed. So where had Jeanne slept Friday and Saturday? Why hadn’t she slept with her husband?
“And why are you standing around daydreaming when there’s work to be done,” she muttered. When and where Jeanne slept, or even with whom she slept, was none of her business.
Even though nothing was really dusty, Charlotte dusted and polished all of the furniture surfaces, anyway, then moved on into the bathroom. There she emptied the wastebasket into a plastic garbage bag first, then cleaned the vanity mirror. Next, she wiped down the marble sink and countertop. After she’d scrubbed and disinfected the toilet, she did the same to the bathtub.
Her last chore was to clean the tiled shower. But when she pulled the bottle of tile cleaner from her supply carrier, she groaned, realizing it was almost empty.
Thanks to her restless night and having overslept, she hadn’t bothered to check on the cleaners in the supplier carrier, as she normally would have.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Just wonderful.” Now she’d have to waste time on a trip out to the van to refill the bottle. Ordinarily, a trip to the van wouldn’t have bothered her, but because of all of the reporters, now she had to walk clear over to the next block. With a firm grip on the empty container and dark thoughts about the news media in general, she stomped out of the bathroom.
As Charlotte approached the door leading into Clarice’s rooms, she suddenly stiffened when she heard the raised voices coming from inside. Since the door was half-open, she slowed her steps to a halt just past the opening.
Jeanne and Clarice were at it again.
“You have to, Mother!” Jeanne insisted, an edge of desperation in her tone. “You have to go.”
“I don’t want to, and besides, you know I can’t get up and down the stairs,” Clarice whined.
Charlotte frowned as she recalled scrubbing up the scuff marks on the tile in Clarice’s bathroom, then scrubbing up the ones that looked exactly the same on the stairs.
“That’s bull, and you know it,” Jeanne retorted. “I’ll get Max to help you down the stairs, just like he does each and every month for your doctor’s visit. Besides, what will everyone think if you don’t show up for your own son-in-law’s funeral?”
“What will everyone think?” Clarice’s indignant voice was a high-pitched squeal. “Since when do you care what everyone thinks?”
“Mother, please, don’t start that again. Not now. You have to go, and that’s all there is to it.”
“For your information, missy, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I didn’t like that two-timing gigolo while he was alive, and unlike some people,” she said, sarcasm dripping with each word, “I refuse to be a hypocrite and pretend I’m grieving now that he’s dead.”
“So what about Anna-Maria? Don’t you even care what she thinks?”
Charlotte didn’t wait around for Clarice’s answer. She figured she’d already heard more than she should have heard. Even so, the harsh, angry words of the two women rang in her ears all the way down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door.
Clarice might insist she wasn’t grieving, might claim to have disliked Jackson, but if she wasn’t grieving, then what on earth was going on with her? Why had she declined to get out of bed, and why had she declined to eat the food brought to her?
Charlotte noticed a group of people huddled together just across the street from the back gate as she walked the half a block to her van. Were they reporters, or were they simply gawkers wanting to get a look at the murdered man’s house? From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell.
Probably gawkers, she thought with disgust as she unlocked the van and climbed inside. Of course, they could simply be one of the many guided walking tours that roamed the city. Tourists were always wandering around through the Garden District.
Charlotte set about refilling the bottle of tile cleaner, then climbed out of the van. She was locking the door when she saw a man break free from the group and stride purposefully toward her.
“Hey!” he called out. “Hey, lady, can I talk to you a minute?”
Something about the slim but powerfully built man set off warning bells, and Charlotte always heeded warning bells. She firmly shook her head and walked briskly toward the back gate.
“Wait up, lady. I’m a reporter for the Times-Picayune. I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
Again Charlotte shook her head. “Go away. No one here is interested in answering any of your questions.” She picked up her pace, but she could still hear him behind her.
She was almost to the gate when he suddenly darted past her, stepped in front of her, and pivoted, blocking her path. “How long have you worked for the Dubuissons?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Go away.” She tried sidestepping to get around him, but he grabbed her supply carrier.
“Come on, lady. Just a couple of questions.”
Sudden anger shot through her. “Let go!” she demanded.
“Don’t you want your name in the paper?”
Charlotte glared at the man. Gripping the supply carrier with both hands, she shouted, “No! Now let go!” She yanked hard, and he lost his hold. She feigned to the right. Before he could regain his balance, she jerked back to the left and bolted through the gate opening.
Charlotte knew that the gate would automatically lock once it was pulled into place, and she quickly slammed it shut.
With the locked gate between her and the man, she still didn’t breathe easy until she reached the steps leading to the deck.
“Aw, come on, lady,” he called out.
His hands clutched the cast-iron bars on the other side, giving him the appearance of being behind the bars of a jail. “Give me a break here. All I wanted was to ask a couple of questions.”
“Go away,” she yelled, “or I’m calling the police.” With one last, wary look at the reporter, she hurried across the deck. Once inside the house, she shoved the door shut and locked it, but her heart was still racing.
“Charlotte?”
The abrupt sound of Jeanne’s voice gave her a start. Charlotte whirled around to see the younger woman standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“What’s going on? Did I hear voices outside?”
Still so angry that she could hardly talk, Charlotte nodded as she shoved away from the door. “Just an obnoxious reporter,” she told her, “looking for a story.”
A haunted expression came over Jeanne’s face. “Aren’t they all?” Her voice quivered, and if possible, she suddenly looked even more exhausted than she had earlier.
“Now, don’t you worry one minute about that man out there,” Charlotte told her, her protective instincts flaring. “I’ll fix his wagon good. I’ll call my niece—”
I’d just as soon you didn’t tell Mrs. Dubuisson that we’re related....
“The police,” Charlotte quickly interjected to cover the slip. “If he doesn’t go away soon, I’ll call the police—or just as good, I’ll call a friend of mine who’s a managing editor with the Picayune.” Making a mental note to phone Mary Johnson to complain about the reporter, she motioned toward the general direction of the foyer. “You go on back upstairs now. Go to your room and take a nap. Turn the ringer off the phone,” she added, “and I’ll answer it if anyone calls and take messages for you down here.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Jeanne said. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. It’s like I’m too tired now, if that makes any sense.”
Charlotte nodded. “That happens sometimes. What about something to help you sleep? Doesn’t Miss Clarice have a prescription for something like that?”
Jean wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Yes, I’m sure she does, but—”
“Normally, I wouldn’t suggest that anyone take someone else’s prescription drugs,” Charlotte hastened to add, “but I’m sure that whatever Miss Clarice is taking would be mild enough and safe enough for you to take, too.”
The younger woman nodded. “I’ve taken sleeping pills before, so that’s not really a concern.”
“Tell you what, then.” Charlotte moved closer to Jeanne. “Let’s get you tucked into bed and I’ll go ask Miss Clarice for one of those pills for you.” She placed her hand at the small of Jeanne’s back and urged her back through the dining room and into the foyer. That Jeanne willingly went along with her and didn’t argue or resist was telling. The woman was past exhaustion, inside and out.
It was only when they reached the door to the master suite and Jeanne hesitated that Charlotte had misgivings. Maybe she should have suggested that Jeanne sleep in the guest room or even on the sofa in the back parlor.
The guest room.
Of course. All the while, she’d been speculating as to where Jeanne had slept over the weekend, but since she hadn’t cleaned the guest room yet, she’d never once even considered the logical answer, that Jeanne had more than likely been staying in there.
“Ah, Jeanne, maybe you’d prefer to nap in the guest room instead?”
Jeanne slowly turned to face Charlotte, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How did you know?” she whispered.
Not exactly sure what the younger woman was asking, Charlotte simply shrugged. “I didn’t,” she hedged. “I just figured you might find it more—er, ah, comfortable, given the circumstances.”
Jeanne nodded. “You’re a very kind person, Charlotte LaRue. And yes, I think I would rest better in there.”
From that minute on, Charlotte was like an old mother hen hovering over a baby chick as she urged Jeanne toward the room across the hall. “You go in and get undressed, and I’ll bring you in a gown.”
When Charlotte returned with one of the long-sleeved silky gowns and matching robe that Jeanne preferred, she glanced around the spacious room while the younger woman changed. The bed was rumpled, as if it had been hastily made up, a couple of slacks and blouses were draped across one of the overstuffed lounge chairs, and cosmetics littered the dresser top, all evidence that Jeanne had indeed taken up residence in the room.
Once again, as it had earlier, a curious thought niggled at the back of her brain. Why all weekend, though? Why would Jeanne have chosen to sleep in the guest room instead of with her husband, especially since Jackson wasn’t murdered until either late Sunday night or early Monday morning?
After she made sure that Jeanne was tucked into bed, she told her, “I’ll get one of those sleeping pills for you and be right back.”
When Charlotte approached the door to Clarice’s rooms, it was still partially open, and there were no sounds coming from within. Thinking that the old lady could be in the bathroom, Charlotte peeked around the edge of the door.
Jeanne had opened the blinds, and the afternoon light poured into the room. But Clarice wasn’t in the bathroom. The old lady was still in her bed, her head thrown back against a pillow, her eyes closed, and her mouth wide open.
All that arguing must have worn her out, Charlotte thought as she eased inside the doorway, her gaze still focused on Clarice.
But something wasn’t quite right. Charlotte narrowed her eyes and stared harder at the old woman, specifically at her chest region. Shouldn’t her chest be moving up and down, even a little bit? she wondered, staring harder.
An eternity of time seemed to pass, and Charlotte held her own breath even as her whole being slowly filled with dread.
Why wasn’t Clarice breathing?


Chapter Ten
Charlotte was close to the panic stage. Then, suddenly, Clarice’s whole body seemed to shudder. She drew in a noisy, gasping breath, and within moments, she resumed the deep, even rhythm of sleep, accompanied by loud, raunchy snores.
It was only then that Charlotte drew in a deep breath of her own and released it with a sigh of heartfelt relief. Sleep apnea, she belatedly realized as she tiptoed across the room. Another client she’d once worked for had suffered from the sometimes deadly condition, and Charlotte recalled that temporary suspension of respiration was one of the main symptoms.
Quite simply, the brain sometimes malfunctions while the person sleeps and doesn’t send the right signal to the body to breathe. Since Clarice, more than likely, had a milder form of the condition, Charlotte made a mental note to bring the matter to Jeanne’s attention just in case she hadn’t already noticed.
Inside the bathroom, Charlotte flipped on the light switch. To make sure she wouldn’t disturb Clarice, she eased the door closed behind her.
“What a mess,” she murmured as she glanced around. Dirty towels and washcloths, along with dirty clothes, were piled on the tile floor in the corner. But it was the marble countertop around the sink that was the worst. There were more soiled washcloths, wadded up and thrown carelessly in the sink, a couple of dirty glasses, and a tube of toothpaste without the cap, the toothpaste oozing out of the tube onto the countertop.
In addition to everything else, as always, a fine film of talcum powder dusted the countertop and the floor. From her years of working for the Dubuissons, Charlotte had come to know certain idiosyncrasies about each of the family members. One of the things that she’d learned about Clarice was that the old lady literally bathed in the lilac-scented talcum powder after her shower each day.
Inside the closed-up room, the flowery scent was overwhelming. Charlotte felt a sneeze coming on, sniffed to stave it off, then twitched her nose as she stared at the countertop. Then she frowned. Something was different about the powder. Mixed with the talcum was a more coarse type of powder that Charlotte didn’t readily recognize.
So what could it be? she wondered as she reached out and traced an invisible pattern through the residue. Had Clarice changed brands? It certainly smelled like the old lady’s usual brand.
She rubbed her forefinger and thumb together. No, she thought, noting the gritty texture of the substance. It definitely wasn’t all just talcum.
Charlotte never had been able to walk away from a mess. With one last puzzled look at the powder and a shrug, she quickly set about gathering the towels, washcloths, and clothes that were on the floor and on the countertop. After stuffing them into the hamper, she replaced the cap on the toothpaste, then thoroughly rinsed out the dirty glasses.
From underneath the cabinet, she selected a clean washcloth. After wetting it beneath the faucet, she wrung it out, then wiped down the countertop. Wadding it up into a ball, she dropped the soiled washcloth into the hamper, then turned her attention to the array of prescription-medicine bottles lined up at the back of the counter.
Charlotte picked up three different vials and read each of the labels before she finally found the one she was looking for. Though it took a moment to wrest off the childproof cap, she finally got it open and shook out one of the phenobarbital tablets. Peering down into the vial, she noted that there were only two tablets left.
She filled one of the glasses with water, and with one last glance around and a silent promise to do a more thorough job of cleaning once Clarice woke up, she left the bathroom. As she tiptoed back across the bedroom, she noted that Clarice’s breathing still appeared to be normal.
In the guest room, Jeanne was in the bed, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, when Charlotte reentered.
“I took one of your mother’s phenobarbital tablets,” she said as she walked over to the bed and held out the pill.
Jeanne shifted her gaze to Charlotte, accepted the tablet, then raised herself up off the bed, using her elbow for a prop.
“There are only a couple of tablets left, though,” Charlotte told her, “so you might want to call in a refill”
Jeanne’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she popped the tablet into her mouth and washed it down with the water Charlotte gave her. “I can’t believe I forgot to get that refilled,” she said a moment later as she lay back against the pillow. “I guess with everything that’s happened, it just completely slipped my mind.”
“That* certainly understandable,” Charlotte agreed. “Would you like for me to call it in for you? While I’m at it, I could check out Miss Clarice’s other prescriptions, too, in case any of the rest also need refilling.”
Jeanne closed her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side. “That’s really sweet of you to offer, Charlotte,” she murmured. “But no, I’ll take care of it ... later ...” She turned over on her side and snuggled farther down into the bed. “After I’ve rested for a while,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
Charlotte checked to make sure that the ringer of the telephone on the bedside table was turned off, then quietly left the room. With both Jeanne and Clarice asleep, there wasn’t much more she could do upstairs, not without making noise that might disturb them. She knew that the laundry was piling up, but she decided that Friday would be soon enough to catch up on the washing.
Out of the master suite, she retrieved her supply carrier, but as she eyed the small tables in the upstairs hallway, she remembered that she had wanted to make a phone call to Mary Johnson. Figuring that now was as good a time as any, she left her supplies by one of the tables and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.
Mary Johnson was the oldest daughter of Claude and Lydia Johnson, a couple who had been Charlotte’s clients for years, up until they had both retired. After retirement, Lydia had decided that since they needed the additional exercise, anyway, it would do them both a lot of good to clean the house themselves instead of hiring someone.
After a series of transfers, Charlotte finally got Mary on the line. “Mary, this is Charlotte LaRue.”
“Oh, Charlotte, it’s so good to hear from you. How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine,” Charlotte answered. “And you? And your mom and dad?”
Mary assured her that everyone was doing just great, and Charlotte propped her hip against the cabinet while she listened to her friend bring her up-to-date about her parents’ latest hobby.
“I tell you, Charlotte, I never thought I’d see the day when my mother and father would be hitting every garage sale and flea market around. You should see all the junk they’ve collected.”
“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Charlotte told her. And as she listened to Mary describe some of the items her parents had discovered at a particular junk sale, she felt a small pang of envy. One of these days Hank would finally win, she thought. She would have to retire. But unlike the Johnsons, there would be no one for her to share new hobbies with, no one to share anything with....
Charlotte gave herself a mental shake. Retirement day was still a long way off as far as she was concerned, and feeling sorry for herself was a totally useless waste of energy and time.
“Listen, hon,” she interrupted when Mary paused, “I know you must be busy, and I won’t keep you but a moment more. But I was wondering if you might be able to help me out with a little problem I’m having.”
Once Charlotte had explained about the rude reporter, Mary was outraged. “I’m so sorry that happened, Charlotte, and I’m pretty sure I know who the man is. We’ve had other complaints about him, if he’s the one I’m thinking of. And for the record, he’s not a regular employee. He’s just a freelance writer we’ve occasionally bought stories from. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about it, but I’ll try. If he makes a pest of himself again, please feel free to call the police on him, with my blessing.”
Charlotte thanked her friend, and quickly reminding Mary to say hello to her folks for her, she ended the conversation. But as she trudged back up the stairs, she couldn’t help thinking about the conversation and how different her life might have been if not for Vietnam.
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda,” she grumbled, removing her duster from the supply carrier. And while she dusted and polished the small tables in the upstairs hallway, she began mentally listing all of her blessings and the positive forces in her life in a concerted effort to stave off the shadows of the past.
By the time she moved on to the staircase, she was feeling somewhat better. The scuff marks were there again, she noted, staring at the stairs. Funny, she thought. They looked just the same as the last time she’d dusted and polished the staircase.
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Maybe she’d been mistaken; maybe the marks hadn’t been made by Clarice’s walker, after all. She supposed that they could have been made by someone’s shoes. Perhaps she should check out the ones that Jeanne wore around the house. In the long run, though, what difference did it make? she finally decided. Either way, the marks still had to be scrubbed up.
It seemed to take an eternity to finish the stairs. By the time she was finally done, she’d lost count of how often she’d been interrupted by the phone ringing. Her legs ached from running up and down the stairs. Her apron pocket was filled with messages she’d taken, mostly from well-meaning acquaintances calling to express their condolences or others wanting to know if funeral arrangements for Jackson had been made yet.
It was getting close to the end of her workday when she finally finished cleaning the downstairs rooms. Jeanne and Clarice were still sleeping.
Though cleaning could be physically demanding and tiring, for the most part it was mindless work, the kind that allowed a person to daydream or occasionally indulge in fantasies.
Charlotte found that cleaning was an excellent time to review all the tiny details as well as the problems that running her own business required. There were always things like quarterly taxes, health insurance, and employee time schedules to contend with. Many times after a day’s work, she found that she was not only physically exhausted but mentally tired as well.
The only chore left to do was to sweep off the gallery; in Charlotte’s opinion, sweeping was the most mindless work of all. At times, she even found the rhythm of the swish-swish of the broom restful, and she welcomed the mental break as she moved onto the porch to begin the task.
Outside there was a cloud cover that painted the sky gray. Though it was still hot and muggy, at least it wasn’t as unbearable as the last time she’d swept the porch.
She had finished almost half the front lower gallery when it suddenly struck her that the pattern of the debris strewn across the porch was almost identical to the one that she’d swept away on Friday.
Charlotte stopped sweeping and stood motionless. Frowning, she stared at the leaves and dried grass. On Friday, she’d decided the debris was the result of the gardener’s tracking the stuff across the porch in search of a cool, shady place to rest.
Her frown deepened. The gardener came on Tuesdays, and the police didn’t finish their investigation until late Tuesday, too late for the gardener to come.
So who had tracked up the porch this time?
Then it dawned on her, and she chuckled. The police. Yes, of course, she thought as she resumed sweeping. The police were probably all over the place, looking for clues, so of course they were the ones who had tracked it up this time.
But as she turned the corner of the porch and the cast-iron bistro set came into view, she slowed to a standstill again. One of the chairs had been moved closer to the double French doors, in almost the same exact position that she’d found it in on Friday. Once again Charlotte envisioned someone sitting in the chair, someone watching, or listening to, the goings-on inside the library.
Someone listening ... watching ... waiting ...
Charlotte shivered. Could she have been mistaken about the gardener, after all? Could that someone have been Jackson’s murderer instead, casing the place?


Chapter Eleven
The slamming of a car door drew Charlotte’s attention away from the chair, distracting her for the moment. Surely that wasn’t the police coming back again, she thought as she hurried back around to the front gallery to investigate. But if it was, then maybe she should tell them about the chair and her suspicions.
Then a vision of the pushy reporter she’d encountered earlier popped into her head. She wouldn’t put it past him to have come back with a whole camera crew in tow.
Charlotte turned the corner of the gallery just in time to see Anna-Maria walk around the front end of a black sporty Jaguar. Charlotte backed up a step and watched as a dark-haired man climbed out from the driver’s side and slammed the door. He was dressed in a royal blue polo shirt, tucked neatly into light tan chinos, and all Charlotte could do was stare. She’d never seen a man with such perfect features, features that bordered on being almost too beautiful to belong to a man.
Though Charlotte had never met Anna-Maria’s fiancé, she assumed that the strikingly handsome young man had to be James Doucet. Her assumption was confirmed when he caught Anna-Maria by the hand and pulled her into his arms for a long, slow kiss. Charlotte’s throat tightened. The kiss was obviously so full of tenderness and love that it almost brought tears to her eyes.
But that was good, she thought, good that Anna-Maria’s fiancé wasn’t afraid to show how much he cared for her. Would it be enough, though? If what Clarice had said was true, if Brian O’Connor was Anna-Maria’s birth father instead of Jackson and the truth ever came out, Anna-Maria was going to need all the loving support she could get to make it through such a traumatizing revelation.
For Anna-Maria’s sake, Charlotte could only hope that James Doucet truly loved her with the kind of love that would be strong enough to weather the turbulent storm that was brewing on the horizon.
The young couple were obviously so caught up in the moment that neither seemed to notice they were being observed. But what if they did catch her watching them?
She knew she shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all, they were out on the street in plain sight for anyone to see, for Pete’s sake ... anyone, including that awful reporter.
Charlotte shuddered. A newspaper reporter was one thing, but what if the couple got the idea that she was spying on them? Just the thought made her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she quickly eased back around the corner to the side porch.
She took her time sweeping away the remaining debris as she listened for some indication that the couple had finished with their good-byes. Then, suddenly, the roar of a lawn mower coming from the property next door intruded, drowning out all other noises.
With a frown of irritation, Charlotte automatically turned toward the source of the noise. At that moment, she caught a glimpse of a man pushing a lawn mower on the other side of the tall hedge of ligustrum that bordered the cast-iron fence separating the properties.
Charlotte recognized the man right away as Joseph O‘Connor, the gardener that Bitsy Duhe used. Was Brian O’Connor helping his father today? she wondered. She shaded her eyes with her hand against the afternoon glare and tried to see in between the breaks in the hedge.
As if the very thought of the man had conjured him up, he suddenly appeared just above the hedge. At first glance, he looked as if he were suspended in midair, floating along the top of the tall hedge. Then Charlotte saw that he was standing on a ladder and in his hands was a piece of equipment she recognized as a gas hedge trimmer.
But Brian O’Connor’s attention wasn’t on trimming the hedge. Instead, his gaze seemed riveted on the street in front of the Dubuissons’ house.
Anna-Maria and James, Charlotte suddenly realized. Brian O’Connor was watching Anna-Maria and James say their good-byes.
Seeing Brian once again reminded her of what Clarice had said earlier. Was it true? Was Brian O‘Connor Anna-Maria’s birth father? Why would the old woman say such a thing if it wasn’t true? And if Brian O’Connor was the young woman’s birth father, did he know that he was? she wondered.
Abruptly, the noisy lawn mower sputtered, then died. At that moment, a movement on the street caught her eye, and Charlotte recognized the black Jag driving slowly away.
But Brian O‘Connor’s gaze was still zeroed in on the front of the Dubuissons’ house, his head slowly turning, as if watching the progress of someone. He was watching Anna-Maria.
The sound of the Dubuissons’ front door opening and closing reached Charlotte’s ears. Only then did Brian O’Connor look away to focus on the piece of machinery in his hands. For long seconds he simply stared at it. Even with the distance between them, Charlotte could see that his expression was tight with strain, as if he were fighting some demon from within.
Then, in an abrupt, almost angry motion, he yanked on the starter cord of the hedge trimmer. One pull was enough, and the piece of machinery came to life with a high-pitched whine.
He knew, thought Charlotte as she watched him crop off the uneven growth of the hedge with swift, precise strokes. Why else would he have been watching Anna Maria so intently?
Sneaking around down on the porch ... think’n nobody knows he’s down there snoop’n around, spying.
Charlotte let out a disgusted sigh. “Why indeed?” she muttered as she shook her head. “There you go again, imagining things that just aren’t so.” And all because of an old lady’s ranting and ravings, an old lady who was probably going senile to boot.
The truth of the matter, plain and simple, was that Anna-Maria was a beautiful young woman, the kind who would attract any man’s attention, even a man old enough to be her father.
But even as Charlotte tried to dismiss the whole incident, she couldn’t completely forget it, not entirely. Nor could she forget the things that Clarice had told her earlier.


Inside the house, Charlotte found Anna-Maria in the kitchen. She was pouring herself a glass of wine.
Charlotte smiled at the young woman. “You doing okay, hon?”
Anna-Maria held out the glass of wine as if making a toast. “Sure, I’m Okay. I’m just fine and dandy, like everyone else in this household. Another couple of glasses of this and I’ll feel even better, though.” As if to emphasize the point, she took a healthy swallow.
The girl was hurting, hurting badly. Charlotte recognized the signs immediately, for she, too, had once been in the young woman’s shoes. She had also wished for something, anything, to take away the pain. Her smile faded.
“Alcohol is a depressant, you know,” she told her softly, gently. “It won’t help, not in the long run.”
For several moments, Anna-Maria simply stared at Charlotte, her expression unreadable. Then, to Charlotte’s surprise, she turned to the sink and poured the drink down the drain. “You’re right, of course,” she said, carefully placing the glass on the countertop. She faced Charlotte again. “But I—I—” Her lower lip quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered in a choked voice. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I—I—” She covered her face with trembling hands, and a deep sob shook her body.
Charlotte quickly closed the gap between them and pulled the young woman into her arms. “There, there,” she murmured, gently patting her back. “I know it hurts, but it’s going to be okay,” she soothed.
Anna-Maria buried her face against Charlotte’s shoulder and continued to sob.
“I’m just so sorry you have to go through this,” Charlotte told her. “I lost my father, too, when I was about your age, and I know how you feel.”
The young woman lifted her head, and with tears still streaming down her face, she stared at Charlotte. “You—you did? Your d—dad was murdered, too?”
“No,” Charlotte said. “He wasn’t murdered. But he and my mom were both killed in an airplane crash. For years they had saved to take their dream vacation, a trip to Hawaii. Then, when they were finally able to ...” Charlotte swallowed hard to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. She could still see the face of the television reporter, still hear his voice as he told about the fatal flight going down in the Pacific.
“They died? Both of them?”
Again, Charlotte nodded. “Strange as it may sound, though, I’ve always drawn comfort from the fact that they were together when it happened. I like to think that’s the way they would have wanted it.”
“Oh, Charlotte, that must have been terrible for you. It’s bad enough I’ve lost my dad, but I can’t even imagine losing my mom, too, and at the same time.”
“You’re going to get through this,” Charlotte assured her. She squeezed the young woman’s shoulders and stepped back. “It’s going to hurt, and it won’t be easy, but you will survive. Just take one day at a time and keep looking forward, not backward. None of us can change the past, and we can’t predict the future. All we truly have is today.”
Anna-Maria sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes, then crossed her arms, hugging them close as she nodded. “I’m trying. Really I am. But—”
“No buts, now,” Charlotte said firmly, wagging her finger at the younger woman. “One thing in particular that helped me was keeping busy. If you can stay busy, then you don’t have a whole lot of time to dwell on things.” She offered the girl a smile. “And speaking of staying busy, there’s something you can do right now.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Your mother and grandmother are both upstairs. Your mom hasn’t been resting well, so she really needs to sleep. I’d feel a whole lot better about leaving if I knew you were keeping an eye on them for me.”
“Do you have to go right now?”
There was a desperate edge in the young woman’s voice, and Charlotte hesitated, torn between leaving and staying. She was tired and ready for her workday to be over, ready to kick back and relax. But she also cared about these people, truly cared about them.
Unbidden, a conversation she’d once had with Hank suddenly came to mind. Be careful dealing with these people, Mother. Business is business, and these people you work for are part of your business. They’re clients. They’re not your friends.
In spite of her son’s warnings, to her the Dubuissons weren’t just clients. She’d watched Anna-Maria grow up. For years she’d observed and admired Jeanne’s devotion to her mother. Charlotte loved her son with all her heart and was proud of him, but she’d often wished that she’d had a daughter, too, one just like Jeanne.
Maybe she could stay just a little longer, after all. “Tell you what,” Charlotte told Anna-Maria, smoothing down her apron. “Why don’t I fix us a nice cup of coffee, some of that New Orleans blend with chicory that you like so well.”
Charlotte’s hands stilled over the pocket of the apron, the slight bulge and rustling sound reminding her of the phone calls and messages she’d taken. She withdrew the messages. “I took some calls while your mother was sleeping.” She handed the slips of paper to Anna-Maria. “We can go over them while we drink our coffee. Just in case you can’t read my handwriting,” she added with a grin. “And after I’m gone, then you can take over that chore as well.”
Anna-Maria nodded, and a tentative smile pulled at her lips. “Thanks, Charlotte.”
She had just finished brewing the coffee when the phone rang. “Why don’t you answer it this time while I pour the coffee,” Charlotte told Anna-Maria. “There’s a notepad on the counter there if you need to take a message.”
The younger woman only hesitated a moment, then answered the call. “Hello ... yes, she’s still here ... just a moment.” She turned to Charlotte and held out the phone. “It’s for you.”
“For me?” Charlotte rolled her eyes upward and gave an exaggerated oh, well shrug, a gesture that made Anna-Maria really smile.
Wondering who on earth would be calling her at the Dubuissons’, she set down the coffeepot, then took the receiver. “Charlotte speaking.”
“Ms. LaRue, this is Detective Thibodeaux with the NOPD.”
At the sound of the detective’s deep, raspy voice, Charlotte stiffened.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he continued. “Either you can come down to the station or I can come by your house.”
She wasn’t sure why, but just the thought of being alone inside her house with the menacing detective made Charlotte’s insides knot up. “I’ll come to the station,” she blurted out. “I can be there in about a half an hour or so.”


Chapter Twelve
An hour later, when Charlotte turned onto Milan Street, she immediately spotted her niece’s tan Toyota parked in front of her house.
She’d gone to the Sixth District police station, but when she’d arrived, she’d been told that Detective Thibodeaux had been called out on another homicide. He’d left word for her that he would be in touch. And though it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop and Charlotte wondered what kind of questions he was going to ask, she was vastly relieved that she didn’t have to deal with the man right away.
Charlotte slowed down the van at her driveway. At any other time, she would have been delighted by a midweek visit from Judith, but given the circumstances surrounding their encounter the night before at the Dubuissons’ house, not to mention the call from Judith’s partner, she felt only dread.
The words official police business kept running through her head.
But Charlotte had always tried to look for something positive in every situation; she supposed that she should be grateful that the car sitting in front of her home belonged to Judith and not Louis Thibodeaux.
Charlotte pulled into her driveway and parked beneath the shed. Everyone in her family knew that Charlotte kept a spare key hidden beneath the fat ceramic frog in the flower bed near the front corner of the house. Since Judith was already inside instead of waiting on the porch, Charlotte figured she’d been there a while.
The moment Charlotte stepped through the front door, Sweety Boy let out a series of chirps and whistles and fluttered around inside his cage, all orchestrated, she knew, to get her attention.
“That bird is something else, Aunt Charley.”
Judith was seated on the sofa. An open briefcase, along with several stacks of papers, were spread out around her. “I’ve been here about a half an hour, and there hasn’t been a peep out of him. He’s barely even moved off his perch, and now look at him.”
“What can I say?” Charlotte grinned. “He knows who hands out the birdseed.”
Ignoring the bird’s antics for the moment, Charlotte deposited her purse on the small table near the door. “I would say that this is a nice surprise,” she said as she slipped off her working loafers and stepped into a pair of soft suede moccasins she wore around the house. “But I have a feeling that this isn’t strictly a social visit. And by the way, I waited for you to call last night.”
Judith had the grace to look sheepish for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Aunt Charley, but I did say I probably wouldn’t have time, and I didn’t get home until late. I figured you were probably already asleep. You’re right, though,” she continued. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit. But Auntie, you know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t necessary. We have to question everyone who is even remotely connected to the family.”
Charlotte nodded. “I understand. What I don’t understand is why I have to be questioned by your partner, too.”
“You’ve seen Thibodeaux?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet, but he tracked me down at the Dubuissons’” She went on to explain about his phone call and what had happened once she’d arrived at the precinct.
Judith looked puzzled. “I’m pretty sure he knew that I was going to talk to you,” she said.
“Maybe because I’m your aunt he doesn’t think you can be objective enough.”
“No, he knows better than that.” Judith paused. Then, after a moment, she shrugged. “He probably just misunderstood.”
Though she didn’t think Judith looked quite convinced, Charlotte let it slide. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower first and change clothes,” she told her. Charlotte headed toward the bedroom. “Just give me ten minutes,” she called over her shoulder. “And there’s a fresh pitcher of tea in the refrigerator. Fix us both a glass.”
Though Charlotte had chosen the navy uniforms and white aprons that she and her employees wore with careful consideration, there was a downside to her choice. While the cotton-knit material always looked neat and was comfortable and practical, it also absorbed odors, more specifically the odors of the cleaning chemicals they sometimes used. She’d learned early on that showering and changing the minute she got home was much more practical than risking a possible allergic reaction to the chemicals.
While Charlotte showered, she thought about the reason for Judith’s visit, and she suspected she already knew what type of questions her niece was going to ask. Since she worked for the Dubuissons, it was only logical that her niece was going to ask her about the family and their relationships with each other.
Charlotte stepped out of the shower, dried off, then went in search of something to wear. With dread building inside her, she selected a well-worn sweatshirt and matching sweatpants from the closet and dressed.
As she’d told Clarice earlier that day though, she never gossiped about her clients. It was a matter of principle and pride that clients trust her and her employees. Whatever went on in a client’s home stayed there. But gossiping about clients and a murder investigation involving the police were two vastly different things. Unlike lawyers and doctors, she didn’t have the legal luxury of pleading privileged information.
Back in the living room, Charlotte seated herself on the opposite end of the sofa from Judith. “I’m pretty sure I know what you want, hon,” she said, accepting the glass of iced tea that Judith handed her, “but I won’t pretend I like it.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Charley. I know all about your privileged-information policy. But I’m getting nowhere fast with this case, and I have to explore every angle.” Judith pulled out a small notebook from her briefcase and flipped through it to a page filled with notes; then she shifted on the sofa to face Charlotte. “At approximately one A.M. Monday morning, someone either broke in or made it appear that they broke into the Dubuissons’ home through the French doors leading out onto the porch. We’ve already established that the front gate was unlocked. Would you happen to know why the gate was left unlocked?”
“Did you ask Jeanne?”
“Yes, Auntie, I did. But I’d like to hear your answer.”
“Well, there’s no big mystery, hon. Jackson often worked on the weekends, and if he was going to be late, she’d leave the gate unlocked so as not to be disturbed when he came home.”
Judith nodded. “That’s what she said.”
Charlotte tilted her head, a puzzled look on her face. “Why did you say ‘made it appear’ earlier?”
Judith waved away the question without looking up. “I’ll get to that in a minute,” she said, her gaze still on her notes. “There were a couple of papers—deeds and stuff—left on the desk, the kind that would be kept in a safe, so I figure that the safe was probably already open. Of course, any good thief worth his salt could crack that particular kind of safe,” she added. “But I don’t think that was necessary in this case.
“We also found a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the desk and not much sign of a struggle. We already know that the Scotch was a new bottle, a gift from Jackson’s partner, Tony Marriott. Supposedly it was a peace offering of sorts for an argument they’d had.”
Judith shifted again on the sofa, a sure sign she was under stress, and Charlotte almost felt sorry for her. Anytime her niece was worried or in an uncomfortable or tense situation, she resorted to what Charlotte thought of as the nervous fidgets. The girl simply couldn’t keep still.
She looked up at Charlotte. “The way I figure it,” she continued, “Jackson was either passed out and came to while the killer was robbing him or he was well on his way to a drunken stupor, too drunk to put up a fight but sober enough to identify the intruder. Why else would the intruder have bashed him in the head?”
. . . bashed him in the head . . . A sudden prickly feeling of déjà vu came over Charlotte as she listened to her niece’s description of the murder scene. Each detail was almost identical to what Bitsy had told her about Andrew St. Martin’s murder, a murder that had occurred over fifteen years earlier.
It was Charlotte’s turn to fidget while her niece paused to take several swallows of her tea. Was it possible that Judith didn’t know about Andrew’s murder? Fifteen years ago, Judith would have still been a teenager, but surely someone with the police department had already recalled the incident. Surely someone older who had been around for a while had already pointed out the similarities of the two murders. Someone like Louis Thibodeaux.
Judith had to know, she decided, and Charlotte couldn’t think of any good reason to bring up the matter. But there were several reasons not to. For one, with her being the Dubuissons’ maid, if she did bring it up, Judith might become even more suspicious of the family than she already was.
While Charlotte continued her mental debate, Judith set her glass down and picked up her story where she’d left off. “But all of that is how it could have happened,” she said. “Personally, I think it was an inside job. And so does Thibodeaux. We both think it’s possible the whole thing was staged . . . the broken glass, the fact that Jackson Dubuisson was bashed in the head and not shot . . .” She waved her hand. “Et cetera, et cetera.
“Assuming that the murder wasn’t simply a random burglary gone sour, so far we have two definite suspects. Right now, Tony Marriott and Jeanne Dubuisson are our best bets.”
“No!” Charlotte shook her head adamantly. “Not Jeanne,” she protested. “Jeanne wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Now don’t get all upset, Aunt Charley.” Judith reached over and patted her shoulder. “We always look at the spouse as a suspect in a murder case. And you’d be surprised at what people are capable of doing, even the seemingly nice ones. But if it will make you feel any better, so far we haven’t uncovered a motive for Jeanne Dubuisson to have killed her husband. Not yer.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, not because she agreed with Judith, at least not about Jeanne’s having killed Jackson. But she did understand what Judith was telling her. It was exactly the same thing Bitsy had said about Clarice’s being the main suspect in Andrew’s murder.
“We’ll know more once the autopsy is done,” Judith said, then glanced up at the cuckoo clock on the wall. “The coroner should be finished by now, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have that report tomorrow morning.”
“So what about Tony Marriott?” Charlotte asked. “Why is he a suspect?” Though she could pretty much guess why, she was curious to hear the official reason the police suspected him.
“He and Jackson had an altercation Friday night at the Zoo To Do. Witnesses say that Tony accused Jackson of having an affair with his wife. He also made some other accusations as well.”
“Like what?” Charlotte asked.
“Primarily, he made noises about Jackson systematically transferring funds out of the firm into his own personal account.”
“I was there Friday night,” Charlotte confessed, “and I saw them having words. But I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying,” she hastened to add.
Judith suddenly grinned. “Hank won out and made you go, after all, huh?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes upward toward the ceiling. “You, of all people, should know how persuasive that son of mine can be.”
“You’re right about that.” Judith laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I got into trouble growing up all because my dear cousin talked me into doing something I shouldn’t have done.” She paused for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes, and her expression softened. “We had some good times, though, despite the circumstances, didn’t we, Aunt Charley?”
“Yes,” Charlotte assured her, knowing exactly the circumstances that Judith was referring to. “Yes, we did,” she confirmed. Then, gently, knowing how painful the subject could be, she asked, “Have you seen your father lately?”
“No, not in a while, not since he married again.” Judith suddenly grimaced and made a sound of disgust. “Can you believe? This is his fourth marriage, and each time, his wives just keep getting younger and younger. This time he married one younger than I am.”
Charlotte winced at the bitterness in her niece’s voice, bitterness resulting from years of hurt and neglect by a father who didn’t know the meaning of the words love and responsibility.
“Have you mentioned this to your mother yet?”
Judith shook her head that she hadn’t. “You know how she gets,” she said. “I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her, not this time.”
Charlotte nodded in agreement. She loved her sister dearly, but she would never understand the love-hate relationship that Madeline had with her ex-husband. Though it had been years since he had run off with another woman and left Madeline with two small children to raise by herself, each of the two other times he’d remarried had thrown her into a tailspin of depression. The kids had still been young then, and Charlotte was the one who had taken care of Judith and Daniel until Madeline was able to snap out of it.
Abruptly, Judith shook her head as if the action would wipe away the disturbing thoughts of her father and mother. Then, with a sigh, she squared her shoulders. “In the meantime, though,” she said, “I’ve still got a case to solve.” She flipped through the notebook to a clean page and reached for a pen in her briefcase. “So,” she said, pen poised in her hand, “what kind of relationship did Jeanne and Jackson Dubuisson have? Did they get along? Did they argue?”
“Like I said earlier, he worked a lot,” Charlotte answered diplomatically. “I rarely ever saw them together,” she explained. “Mr. Dubuisson was always gone by the time I got there, and I always left before he got home.”
“Come on, Aunt Charley, you know what I mean.”
Torn between keeping her client’s confidence and divulging what she knew, Charlotte hesitated.
He’s stealing you blind
Clarice’s accusation rang in Charlotte’s ears, and she winced. “Well, I never heard them argue,” she said truthfully.
“Aunt Charley. Surely Jeanne Dubuisson mentioned her husband to you once in a while.”
“She never actually complained, mind you. All she ever said was that he worked a lot even when he was home.”
Judith made a sound of frustration. “This is getting us nowhere fast. Okay, forget her for now. What about the old lady?”
“What about her?” Charlotte hedged.
“Did she get along with her son-in-law? Did she like him, hate him? What?”
“She’s an old lady,” Charlotte answered. “She has her good days and bad days.”
“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it. Please, Aunt Charley, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Charlotte stared at her niece. “You’re right. It’s just that—I—I—” She shrugged away the explanation. “Never mind.” She lifted her chin. “Miss Clarice was very vocal in her opinions about Jackson. She didn’t like him or respect him. But like I said, she’s an old lady ... maybe even a bit senile at times.” And that was all Charlotte intended to say on the matter.
“The girl ...” Judith checked her notes. “I believe Anna-Maria is her name. How did she get along with her father?”
When Charlotte glared at her niece, Judith held up her hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Forget the daughter. But Aunt Charley, is there anything—anything at all—that you can tell me about the Dubuisson family or their friends that might help?”
Charlotte thought about Brian O’Connor and what Clarice had said about him. Still she hesitated. But which would be worse? To maintain her loyalty and keep what Clarice had told her to herself or breach that loyalty in hopes of protecting the family from further allegations?
In an attempt to stretch the tense muscles in her neck, she tilted her head first to one side and then the other. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, there might be a way she could tell what she knew without compromising her principles.
“There might be another suspect,” she finally said. “Mind you, I said might,” she emphasized when she saw Judith’s eyes brighten with interest. “But I won’t tell you how I know, so don’t ask.”
“Okay, Aunt Charley. Fair enough ... for now. So—who is this suspect?”
“There’s a man named Brian O’Connor who my source claims is the murderer,” Charlotte began, and as she repeated what she’d been told by Clarice, Judith jotted down notes, only interrupting Charlotte’s story to clarify a couple of the facts.
“And you’re sure you can’t tell me who gave you this information?” she asked when Charlotte had finished.
“I’d rather not,” she answered. “I can’t see what purpose it would serve at this stage.”
“Hmm ...” Judith tapped the notebook with the pen. “I suppose you’re right, but I might have to insist that you do so at some point if any of what you’ve told me about this Brian O’Connor turns out to be true. But even if it’s true, even if he is Anna-Maria Dubuisson’s real father, that’s not much of a motive for murder.” She paused. “And another thing. Why now? Why would he have waited so long to get his revenge?”
Judith’s questions weren’t really directed at Charlotte and didn’t require a response, but sharp pangs of guilt nagged at her. “If it helps,” she said, “I can’t see how it’s much of a motive, either. And to be honest, I don’t consider the information that reliable, considering the person who told me. But be that as it may, I still felt obligated to pass it along.”
Judith shoved her fingers through her hair and flounced around to a different position on the sofa. “Don’t worry about it, Aunt Charley. You did the right thing by telling me, and I’ll check it out. Discreetly, of course,” she added. “But at this rate, this case is going nowhere fast. And frankly, right now, I’m at a dead end—Oops! Sorry, Aunt Charley, no pun intended. All I meant was that both the primary suspects have alibis.”
Hoping that Judith would tell her more about the alibis, Charlotte raised one eyebrow and directed a pointed look at her.
“Okay, okay. I really shouldn’t,” she said, “but I don’t guess it would hurt to tell you. None of it is a big, dark secret, anyway. Tony Marriott claims he and his wife were on their sailboat in the middle of Lake Pontchartrain at the time. And of course, his wife corroborates the story.”
“Well, I can’t imagine Tony would be stupid enough to murder Jackson, anyway,” Charlotte exclaimed, “especially not after what happened on Friday night. As a lawyer, surely he would realize that there were too many witnesses to his altercation with Jackson.”
Judith nodded. “Exactly my conclusions, too.”
“And Jeanne?”
“Mrs. Dubuisson’s mother swears that she and her daughter were watching a late-night television movie together. Says she wasn’t feeling well and Jeanne didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“Sounds like something Jeanne would do,” Charlotte said. “She’s very devoted to her mother.”
“Yes, well, at first I thought it was a little strange that neither of the women heard anything.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “But the way that house is built, and if they were both upstairs with a television set going, it’s possible, I suppose.”
Judith paused and stared with unseeing eyes at a point just beyond Charlotte’s head. “The case is young yet, but the whole thing has me stumped. Brick-wall time,” she said, unable to mask her frustration. “I’ll check around about this Brian O’Connor person. But unless we can come up with a murder weapon or discredit either Jeanne Dubuisson’s or Tony Marriott’s alibis, I’m afraid this is going to be just one more of those lovely unsolved cases that already clutter my files.”


Chapter Thirteen
Normally, Charlotte tried to keep Thursdays free from commitments so she could catch up on paperwork or do whatever was needed to keep her service running smoothly as well as take care of personal errands. But with the two unexpected days off on Monday and Tuesday, she’d already done everything. Thursday loomed before her like a vast wasteland of unending time.
“And Hank wants me to retire,” she muttered as she pulled on her walking shoes. Without her work, what would she do all day long?
Go crazy, she thought as she tied the laces into double knots, then headed for the front door. “Absolutely crazy, crazy, crazy,” she told Sweety Boy as she paused in front of his cage.
But Charlotte knew there was more to her restlessness than having nothing to do. She could always find something to do if she really wanted to. And if all else failed, she could always catch up on the latest movies she hadn’t seen in the theater. It had been a long time since she’d indulged in one of her afternoon movie marathons.
The trouble was, she didn’t want to do anything. After Judith had left, she’d tried watching television, but even with eighty-some-odd cable stations to choose from, nothing had held her interest for very long. She’d finally selected a book from the fresh batch Bitsy had given her and tried reading for a while.
But nothing had worked, and she’d spent a restless night tossing and turning and replaying in her mind the conversation she’d had with her niece about the relationships between the members of the Dubuisson family.
“One thing I can do, though,” she told the little parakeet. She poked her finger into the cage and wiggled it. “I can clean out that nasty cage of yours.” As if agreeing, the little bird nodded his head up and down and made chirping noises; then he hopped closer to her finger.
Charlotte rubbed the back of his head. “Now say, ‘Bye-bye, Charlotte,’ ” she instructed. The parakeet pushed against her finger with his head and made a gurgling noise. “Come on, boy, you can do it. Say it. Say, ‘Bye-bye, Charlotte.’ ”
“Crazy.”
Charlotte froze when she heard the garbled sound. “Did you just say, ‘Crazy’?” She stared at the little bird and narrowed her eyes. The parakeet cocked his head and stared back. “No way,” she whispered, pulling her finger out of the cage. “Bad enough I talk to myself. Now I’m hearing things as well.”


Outside, the sky was overcast, and the warm air was heavy and humid, a sure sign of rain. The narrow street was quiet, with little traffic, since most of Charlotte’s neighbors had either already left for work or hadn’t ventured out yet.
Across the street, her neighbor’s black-and-tan Doberman suddenly spotted her. He bared his teeth and, with a low warning growl, strained against the leash that kept him tied to the front porch. Then he began to bark.
Charlotte glared at the Doberman. “Be quiet, Prince,” she commanded in a firm, loud voice. “It’s just me, you silly mutt.”
Prince immediately stopped barking and began to whine instead. Ignoring the dog, Charlotte took a few minutes to do some warm-up stretches, then she struck out down the sidewalk and headed toward the intersection of Milan and Magazine.
But with every step, no matter how hard she tried to clear her mind and concentrate on coordinating the swinging of her arms and her breathing with her pace, nagging thoughts of Jackson Dubuisson’s murder kept interfering.
Judith had said she would have the results of the autopsy today. Charlotte wondered what, if anything, the report would turn up. She also wondered if Judith would share what the report said if she called and asked.
Half a block from home, a sudden prickly uneasiness came over her. At first, she ignored the feeling, telling herself that she was being silly. Milan Street was a perfectly safe street, one that she knew like the back of her hand. But with each step she took, the uneasy feeling persisted and grew worse.
Someone was watching her.
Without breaking stride, and trying not to be too obvious, she casually glanced around, her gaze taking in both sides of the street within her view.
Nothing. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing more sinister or threatening than the roots of the oak trees protruding through the cracked sidewalk.
When she chanced a quick look over her shoulder, however, she immediately spotted the source of her discomfort.
A blue Ford Taurus was cruising slowly behind her. The car was just far enough back so that the noise of the vehicle had blended in with the sound of traffic passing on Magazine Street.
Because of the distance and the car’s tinted windows, she didn’t recognize the driver right away. But something about the outline of the driver made her suspect that the person behind the wheel was male.
The minute the driver realized she’d spotted him, he gunned the engine and drove past her. Though the side windows of the car were even more darkly tinted than the windshield, Charlotte got a good glimpse of the driver.
Detective Louis Thibodeaux.
Maybe he wouldn’t stop, she prayed, and held her breath.
When he pulled the vehicle over to the curb, just ahead of her, then stopped, her nerves tightened like the strings of a violin. Charlotte released her pent-up breath and slowed her pace. He was waiting for her, she suddenly realized, waiting for her to come to him. Why, the man didn’t even have the decency to get out of his car. He was sitting there, waiting, as if she were some street hooker.
Charlotte felt her temper flare. It would serve him right if she ignored him and just kept on walking. Or even better, she could pull an about-face and head the other way. That would show him.
In the end, she did neither. Still fuming, and ignoring the tiny voice inside her head that said she was overreacting, out of sheer stubbornness she stopped several feet behind the detective’s car. If he wanted to talk, he’d have to come to her, she decided.
With her hands on her hips, she glared at the parked vehicle and tapped her foot impatiently while she waited. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the car door swung open, and the detective climbed out.
Louis Thibodeaux was dressed in neatly pressed khaki pants and a solid brown shirt with a buttoned-down collar, the sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. Though he wasn’t a tall man, there was something about his stocky appearance that made him seem large and intimidating, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d harangued and bullied Jeanne when he’d questioned her.
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he said. “I spotted you walking down the street right after I pulled up to your house.”
Charlotte chose to say nothing, for she wasn’t about to admit that he had frightened her.
“I wanted to apologize about missing our meeting yesterday.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t an apology.
“I’d still like to ask you a few questions,” he continued.
“What kind of questions?” she blurted out. “I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told my niece. And now isn’t really a good time for me,” she quickly added. Of course, no time would be good for her as long as he was asking the questions, but she couldn’t say that.
“There are just a couple of points I want to clarify.”
Charlotte tilted her head and raised one eyebrow as if to say, So go ahead.
“Could I buy you a cup of coffee while we talk? There’s a coffeehouse not far on Magazine.”
To be fair, the man was trying to be civil, but just the thought of climbing into the car with the detective made her insides feel all jittery. No way, she decided. “What is it you want to know, Detective?” she demanded.
Dark eyebrows furrowed over his equally dark eyes as he stared at her for several seconds. She was sure that the gesture was intended to intimidate, so just to show him that it didn’t work, she pasted on her friendliest smile while she waited for his answer.
“I want to know how the daughter and her father got along.”
“You mean her stepfather, don’t you?”
“That hasn’t been established yet.” The detective’s voice became a growl of impatience. “I think you know exactly what I mean, but just for the sake of clarity, how did Anna-Maria Dubuisson get along with Jackson Dubuisson?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Detective,” she said sweetly. “It was rare that I ever saw them together, since, as I told my niece, most of the time Mr. Dubuisson was already gone to work by the time I arrived and I had usually finished and left before he got home each evening.”
Louis Thibodeaux studied Charlotte for several seconds before he asked his next question. Though there was nothing menacing in the way his dark eyes looked at her, she was certain it was a deliberate action on his part, designed to throw her off balance.
“What do you know about the daughter’s boyfriend?” he finally asked.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve never met the young man.” This time she paused. After all, she thought as she studied him, turnabout was fair play. “Any other questions, Detective?” she finally said.
He glared at her, but before he had a chance to respond, the radio in his car crackled to life. He stepped over to the window, and after listening a moment, he said, “The rest will have to wait. I have to answer this call. I’ll be in touch, though,” he told her as he opened the door and climbed inside.
As she watched his vehicle roar off down the street, she repeated the detective’s parting words. “I’ll be in touch.” She mimicked his growling tone. “Yeah, and I can’t wait,” she muttered sarcastically when his car disappeared around the corner.


Thirty minutes later, sweaty, winded, and still annoyed by Louis Thibodeaux’s surprise appearance, Charlotte turned back down the block leading back to her house. Abruptly, she stopped dead in her tracks and groaned.
“Just what I need this morning,” she grumbled.
Parked in front of her home was a red Dodge Neon she recognized all too well. Her sister’s Neon.
Why wasn’t Madeline at work, where she was supposed to be? Charlotte wondered. As she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, a feeling of dread weighed down each step. An early-morning visit from her sister didn’t bode well and could only mean one thing: Madeline was in some kind of trouble ... again.
Over the years, Madeline had moved back in with Charlotte at different times. The reasons varied and ranged from too much debt to failed relationships.
At least she had the good sense to lock the door behind her this time, thought Charlotte when she tried the front doorknob and found she had to use her key to get inside.
Charlotte unlocked the door, but even before she opened it, she heard the muted squawks and protests of Sweety Boy coming from the other side. She groaned again, knowing exactly what she would find when she got inside.
Just as she’d expected, the little parakeet was hopping from one side of the cage to the other, banging against the wire cage, his wings flapping in protest. Birdseed was scattered everywhere.
“Hey, boy, I’m home now,” Charlotte told him softly, reaching through the cage with her finger to pet him. “Just calm down,” she soothed as she stroked his breast. “There, there, that’s a good Sweety Boy, my good little watch bird.”
After a moment, the little parakeet hopped on Charlotte’s finger and began preening his ruffled feathers. Satisfied that he had finally settled down, Charlotte nudged him off her finger onto his perch and went in search of her sister.
“Madeline?” she called out
“In the kitchen,” her sister answered in a lackluster voice that made Charlotte wince.
When she entered the room and saw Madeline seated at the breakfast table, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug, the feeling of dread she’d had earlier grew even stronger.
There were dark circles beneath her sister’s eyes, her toffee-colored hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a brush in days, and she was dressed in a faded T-shirt and stained sweatpants.
“That bird hates me,” Madeline told her.
Charlotte walked to the refrigerator.
“Every time I come over here, he goes into conniption fits,” Madeline continued. “Why, this time he even called me crazy! Is that the kind of thing you’ve been teaching him—to call your sister crazy?”
Charlotte couldn’t help herself as she burst out laughing. “That’s silly,” she said, almost choking on the words. “Sweety Boy doesn’t talk.”
“Humph! Sounded like he said crazy to me.”
“Well, if the shoe fits ...”
“Thanks a lot, Charlotte. I can always count on you to come up with pithy words of wisdom.”
Madeline’s smile belied her sarcastic words. Charlotte simply shook her head and grinned as she opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of orange juice. “It has to be the perfume you wear,” she said, for lack of any other excuse, though from the looks of her, she doubted that her sister had bothered with perfume.
Charlotte took a glass out of the cabinet and poured the juice. “I think I read somewhere that birds are really sensitive to odors.” She held out the glass. “Want some?”
“Humph! Can’t be perfume. I’m not wearing any.” Then Madeline shook her head. “No, thanks.”
With a shrug, Charlotte returned the carton of juice to the refrigerator, then seated herself at the table across from her sister. “Maddy, why are you here?”
“Well, excuse me,” Madeline replied in her most indignant tone. “Can’t I visit my own sister?”
Charlotte ignored the question. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Her sister dropped her gaze, focusing on the coffee she was holding, and took her time answering. “I got fired,” she finally said, her voice just above a whisper. She glanced up. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
It never is, thought Charlotte. For years she’d blamed herself for her sister’s irresponsible ways. She’d spoiled Madeline after their parents’ deaths, then made excuses for her sister’s reckless actions, setting a pattern that had unfortunately continued into adulthood.
Charlotte no longer blamed herself, though, and hadn’t, not for a long time. She had finally made peace with her guilty conscience, had finally decided that she’d done the best she could with what she had at the time. It had taken awhile, but she’d ultimately reached the point where she could accept the fact that Madeline was a grown woman who knew right from wrong. How she lived her life had to be up to her.
She gave her sister a pointed look. “So whose fault was it?” she asked bluntly.
Maddeline colored slightly and glanced away. “I never could fool you, could I?”
Charlotte reached out and patted her sister’s hand. “What happened, Maddy?”
“Johnny got married again.”
Charlotte stiffened and jerked her hand away. For long seconds, all she could do was stare at her sister as she battled for patience as well as control over her rising temper. But neither was forthcoming, and she lost the battle.
“What on earth does your ex getting married again have to do with you getting fired?” she said through clenched teeth.
“I was absent too many times without an excuse.”
“Aw, Maddy, give me a break. It’s been over twenty years since he left you. Do you know how absurd all of that sounds?”
Suddenly, Madeline slapped her hands against the table and propelled herself out of the chair. “Yes, Charlotte!” she shouted as she leaned across the table and glared at her. “I’m well aware of how absurd that sounds, and I certainly don’t need you to point it out. I came over here thinking—thinking—” Her voice died away, and she shook her head. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what I was thinking,” she mumbled as she collapsed back into her chair. Crossing her arms on top of the table, she laid her head down on top of them.
“Maddy, honey, you need some help—some professional help.”
Madeline raised her head. “I never told you,” she whispered, “but I tried that several years ago. It didn’t work.”
“Maybe you didn’t go to the right doctor,” Charlotte suggested.
“Well, I can’t afford to go to any doctor now, so what’s the point? Besides, I wouldn’t know who to go to even if I could afford it.”
Charlotte thought a minute and chose her words carefully. “I’ll ask Hank to help you locate the right doctor. I can lend you the money if needed, but I’m sure you won’t have any trouble getting another job. Good CPAs are hard to find, especially ones who are as qualified and experienced as you are.”
Even as Charlotte hesitated, waiting for her sister’s reaction, the gem of an idea began taking root. Excitement began to build the more she thought about it, and suddenly she knew that she had the perfect solution to her sister’s job situation.
“Hey, Maddie, what about starting your own company? I’m sure that Hank could make recommendations to some of his colleagues, and so could Daniel.” She rushed on. “For that matter, so could I.”
Madeline slowly straightened back into a sitting position, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Do you really think I could?”
“Of course you could.”
“But wouldn’t something like that take a lot of money? I have bills to pay—rent, utilities, a car note ...”
Remembering how often she had cautioned Madeline about saving for a rainy day, Charlotte fought down frustration and disappointment. How many times had she stressed that a single woman needed to have a financial cushion?
Charlotte thought about it for a minute, and though she knew she might regret it, she made the offer, anyway. “You could always move back here. The other half of the double isn’t rented right now, anyway. And I could spring for the utilities for a couple of months until you got on your feet.”
“I could get a small-business loan, too,” Madeline said, excitement building in her voice. “I already have a computer and the programs I’d need.” A smile broke out on her face. “Oh, Charlotte, why didn’t I think of this years ago?”
Charlotte laughed, but refrained from pointing out that she was the one who had thought up the idea. “Tell you what,” she said. “I just happen to have the afternoon free. If you want to get started on cleaning out the other half of the double after lunch, I’d be glad to help.”
Madeline nodded enthusiastically. “If we can get it cleaned today, I could get Daniel and Hank to help me move in by the weekend. That would save me having to come up with next month’s rent on my apartment. And tomorrow I could go to the bank and talk to them about a small loan—Oh, Charlotte, this is great! I haven’t felt so good in a very long time.”
While Madeline chattered away, making all kinds of enthusiastic plans, Charlotte fixed them breakfast and tried not to begrudge the extra money her sister’s plans were going to cost her.
Over poached eggs, whole-wheat toast, and fresh Ponchatoula strawberries, she listened to her sister mapping out a list of things to be done while she tried to ignore the niggling doubts already forming in the back of her mind.
To make a business successful demanded a great deal of hard work and dedication and a lot of self-discipline. Would Madeline be able to handle the responsibilities that running a business required? Or would she revert back to her old, irresponsible ways? Charlotte had lost count of the times she’d had to bail her sister out of financial disasters, and with her own retirement looming so near, she really couldn’t afford to take too many more risks.
Only time would tell, she finally decided as she stood on the front porch and watched her sister drive away.
If worse came to worse, Hank would take care of you.
Charlotte shuddered and walked back inside, locking the door behind her. She loved her son with all of her heart, and she knew he meant well, but having to rely on him—or anyone, for that matter—was simply out of the question. Charlotte LaRue could take care of herself.
Back in the kitchen, she cleared the table, stacked their dirty dishes into the dishwasher, then turned on the dishwasher. At least her sister’s visit had taken her mind off the Dubuissons for a while ... and off of dark thoughts of Louis Thibodeaux and his probing questions. Madeline’s visit had also solved another dilemma as well. Now she knew how she was going to spend her afternoon, she thought as she walked into the living room and eyed Sweety Boy’s dirty cage with distaste.
Though she tried to change the paper in the bottom of the cage daily, at least once a week she washed his food pot and the water trough and tubes in hot, sudsy water. She also removed and thoroughly cleaned the perches and swing by scraping them with sandpaper, just as the vet had suggested. In addition, she always made sure that she sprayed the little bird with a special parasitic spray. The whole process took about an hour and was her least favorite chore, one that she tended to put off as long as possible.
As she stared at the cage, an idea began to form. She was certain that Judith would want to know about her mother’s new employment plans. Why not use the news to her advantage. Telling her niece the news would give her a legitimate excuse to call her, and of course, after telling Judith about her mother’s new plans, she could work the conversation around to Jackson’s autopsy report.
Charlotte went to her desk and looked up the phone number to the Sixth District police station in the phone directory. Cleaning the birdcage could wait until later, she decided as she punched out the number. And in the grand scheme of things, what was a clean birdcage compared to finding a murderer?