ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks and appreciation to all who so generously gave me information and advice while I was writing this book: April Colley, my daughter; Lally Brennan and Gerald Aviles at Commander’s Palace; John Mcgill and Pamela Arceneaux with the Williams Research Center in New Orleans; Mary Lou Christovich; Cheryl Harrington and her parakeet, Jazz; and my good friends and fellow writers Rexanne Becnel, Jessica Ferguson, and Marie Goodwin.
Chapter One
T he cooler, dry air was invigorating, and Charlotte LaRue sighed with pleasure as she stepped onto the front porch of her Victorian double.
The first touch of fall had finally arrived, but not without a battle. Just before midnight she’d been awakened by the clash of thunder and lightning as a cold front fought its way south. Then the rain had begun, torrents of it from the sound it had made beating against her roof. But the rain hadn’t lasted long, just long enough to wash away any remnants of the heat and humidity that typically smothered New Orleans.
Of course, by the time the so-called cold front reached the city, it wasn’t cold anymore. It was simply cooler. But cooler was good. She’d gladly take what she could get.
Charlotte sighed again. Today would have been the perfect day to raise the windows and air out her stuffy house. Too bad, she thought. Her aging air conditioner could use the rest, and she could use the reprieve from her outrageous electric bill as well.
But duty called. Today she had to go to work, and for the sake of security, she didn’t dare leave the windows open without being there. For the first time in a long time, she’d be working through the weekend as well, but Sunday might be a possibility, if she finished up the job on Saturday.
“Probably won’t last till Sunday,” she muttered. Unlike other parts of the country that had a real, honest-to-goodness fall season, October in New Orleans could be as mercurial as a woman going through menopause.
Charlotte winced at the mental analogy, but she had no illusions about the source. Aging…menopause…Change of seasons. Change of life. Another year passing. And with another year, yet another birthday.
But not just any birthday. This one was the big one, the one that made her insides shrivel and tighten with dread every time she thought about it.
Turning fifty had been bad enough, a half century bad enough, including menopause and all of the clichéd jokes about being over the hill. But there was just something about even the sound of sixty…
Charlotte shuddered. Then, with a determined shake of her head, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. She’d read somewhere that aging was a state of mind, the difference between thinking positive and negative. You’re only as old as you think. Or maybe that was feel? You’re only as old as you feel.
“Whichever,” she murmured with a shrug. Think…feel…It didn’t really matter. What mattered was concentrating on keeping a good positive attitude instead of dwelling on the negative. She should be grateful for all of the good things about her life, she thought. She had the love of her family and friends, and her health. Her maid service had grown by leaps and bounds, so much so that she’d had to expand and hire help.
Charlotte blinked several times and frowned. Her left eye itched. Though she loved this time of year, unfortunately, her allergies didn’t. She reached up to rub her eye. Then, clenching her fist, she quickly lowered her hand.
Rubbing the eyes could cause wrinkles. Yet one more thing to be grateful for, she decided. Thanks to good genes, she didn’t have that many wrinkles. Not yet. And the bit of gray in her hair still blended naturally with the dark blond, giving it a highlighted look. Her daily walk and her line of work helped keep her physically fit—her muscles were toned, and she could still wear a size ten petite dress.
Her daily walk…Charlotte took a deep breath, savoring the cool air, then let it out in a sigh full of longing. Oh, how she missed her early-morning walks. There was something really special about getting out when everything was still fresh.
Yet another change. Everything changes and nothing stays the same, she reminded herself. It had been five months since she’d begun working for Marian Hebert on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Unlike her former clients, the Dubuissons, who had been content with her showing up at nine, Marian wanted her at work by eight. At first she’d set her alarm clock an hour earlier each morning so she could still take her walk. She was not an early riser by nature, though. Getting up earlier had lasted only a week before she’d decided to content herself with walking in the evenings instead.
“Oh, well,” she murmured, glancing around for the newspaper. There was no use in worrying about any of it. The only thing to do was learn to roll with the punches.
Worrying about turning sixty wasn’t going to change the outcome. Whether she liked it or not, unless she died or the world came to an end, her birthday would come. And worrying about having to change her walking time wouldn’t change anything either, not if she wanted to keep her newest client.
Still searching for the newspaper, Charlotte stepped closer to the front of the porch. She spotted it on the second step from the bottom. The paper was enclosed in a clear plastic bag that still held small pockets of water from the rain. She bent down, picked it up, then shook off the excess moisture. Just as she slipped it out of the plastic wrap, she heard the click of the dead bolt on the front door of the other half of her double.
“Oh, no!” she whispered, glaring at the door. Thoughts of making a run for it flitted through her head. The last person she wanted to see and the last person she wanted to see her this early in the morning was Louis Thibodeaux.
She still couldn’t believe that she’d given in and rented out the other half of her double to him. After the last tenants she’d had, she’d decided against ever renting to anyone again. But Louis was different, and knowing his stay would only be temporary had been the deciding factor.
The house he’d owned Uptown had sold before he’d finished building his retirement home on Lake Maurepas. Once he’d finished his lake house, he would move out.
Charlotte eyed her own front door and calculated her chances. No way would she make it in time, not without breaking her neck on the slippery porch in the process. With a resigned sigh, she faced the door at the other end of the porch as it swung open.
Louis Thibodeaux was a stocky man with gray hair and a receding hairline. Though not pretty-boy handsome, he was an attractive man, in a rugged sort of way. And unlike most men his age, his belly was still nice and flat instead of hanging over his belt.
“Hey, there, Charlotte,” he said. “I thought I heard you out here.”
Great, she thought, wondering if her hair was sticking up all over the place and wishing she’d at least pulled on a pair of sweats instead of her old ratty housecoat.
In contrast, Louis had already showered, shaved, and dressed, and every gray hair on his perfectly shaped head was combed and in place.
Charlotte forced a smile and held up the newspaper. “Just getting the paper.” She stepped back up onto the porch. Noting that he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his usual khaki slacks and dress shirt, she tilted her head and frowned. “You off today?”
“Today and tomorrow.” He held up crossed fingers. “I’m just hoping that nothing major goes down to interfere.”
Charlotte suppressed a shudder. Louis was a New Orleans homicide detective, and to Louis, “major” meant murder and death.
“Since Judith is showing my replacement the ropes,” he continued, “I thought this would be a good time to take some vacation days.”
Charlotte frowned. “Your replacement? Already? But I thought you weren’t retiring until the end of the year.”
“I’m not, but the end of the year will be here before you know it.”
And so will my birthday. Charlotte immediately shied away from the depressing thought. “How is my niece, by the way?” Better to think about Judith than to think about turning sixty. “I haven’t seen or heard from her since last Sunday.”
“She’s okay.” He shrugged. “It’s been kinda rough on her, breaking in a new partner, but hey—she’s tough, and she’ll survive.”
Survive! Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that, but before she could question Louis about it, he switched subjects on her.
“I’m glad I caught you before I left,” he said. “I’ll be working out at the camp for the next couple of days, but I’ll have my cell phone on, just in case anything comes up. We finally got the roof on last week, so I’m ready to start on the inside. If everything goes as planned, I should be able to move by the end of next month.”
Charlotte nodded but gave him a sharp look. “What exactly did you mean by ‘survive’?”
His expression abruptly grew tight, and a warning cloud settled on his features. “I didn’t mean anything, Charlotte. It’s just an expression. The new guy will do just fine. Judith will do just fine,” he emphasized. “Besides, he comes highly recommended by the brass.”
The last was said with a slight edge in his voice, and that, along with Louis’ expression, could mean almost anything.
“Stop it, Charlotte. Get that look off your face and stop it right now.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s something wrong with Judith or this new partner of hers, I have a right to know, so you just stop it. This is my niece we’re talking about, a girl I helped raise. And you and I both know that a good partner can mean the difference between life and death for a police officer.”
“Judith will be just fine.” He separated and emphasized each word as if he were talking to a stubborn two-year-old. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got things to do, and I’d like to get on the road before traffic backs up.”
Before Charlotte could protest, he stalked past her, stomped down the steps, and made a beeline for his car.
For long seconds, she stood glued to the spot, fuming, as she watched the detective drive off down the street. Something was going on, something he didn’t want to talk about. And just like a man, any time they didn’t want to talk about a subject, they either headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom or they simply left the premises.
Finally, with a frustrated shake of her head, she headed inside. But as she passed her desk, she eyed the phone. “I should give Judith a call and find out for myself about this new partner of hers.” She glanced up at the birdcage near the front window. “What do you think, Sweety Boy?” she asked. “Should I call her?”
The little parakeet cocked his head to one side, let out a chirp, then began prancing back and forth along the perch inside his cage, squawking out the only word he knew. “Crazy! Crazy!”
“Well, you’re no help. And that’s enough of that. Why can’t you say something nice, something like ‘good morning’ or even just ‘hello’?” For months she’d been trying to teach the silly parakeet to talk, but the one word that he had chosen to say wasn’t among the few phrases she’d repeated over and over.
Go figure, she thought as she eyed the phone again. Just about the time she’d made up her mind to dial her niece, the cuckoo clock on the wall over her desk signaled the half hour. Six-thirty.
Charlotte glared at the parakeet, then burst out laughing. “You’re right, Sweety. I would be ‘crazy’ to call this early.” Knowing her niece, she probably wasn’t even awake yet.
In the kitchen, armed with her first cup of coffee, Charlotte seated herself at the table. She removed the Lagniappe Arts and Entertainment insert that came with each Friday’s paper and set it aside to read later. Though she normally read the paper at the end of the day, she always took time to scan the headlines over her first cup of coffee.
Flattening out the rest of the paper, she began skimming the front page. When her gaze reached the bottom right-hand corner, she froze, her eyes riveted to the caption.
DUBUISSON MURDER TRIAL—JURY SELECTION TO BEGIN.
She’d known it was coming, but the shock of actually seeing it in bold print still stunned her. For long seconds, she stared at the paper, mesmerized. The five months that had passed since the scandalous Dubuisson murder evaporated like rising steam, and she blanked out everything but the horrific events behind the headline.
Like a video on fast-forward, the horrible memories unfolded in her mind in rapid succession. And she saw it all again, beginning with the day she’d first learned that someone in her former client’s household had been murdered and ending with her horrifying brush with death that had finally precipitated the arrest of the murderer.
Only recently had her nightmares eased. Only within the last month had she finally stopped reliving her own near-death experience because of her association with the Dubuissons.
Charlotte shivered. When it happened, she’d been lucky that the police kept her name out of the papers. This time, though, she wouldn’t be so lucky. First the jury selection, then the trial. And with the trial, the D.A. would subpoena her as a witness for the prosecution. Not only would her name be in the papers, but she’d have to relive it all again, all of it, blow by blow, the whole sordid, ugly affair.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, feeling as if the weight of the world had suddenly descended on her shoulders. “Just what I needed this morning.” Not only did she have her sixtieth birthday to look forward to, but now this, something else to dread.
Chapter Two
I t was the trill of the telephone that finally penetrated Charlotte’s morose brooding. With a frown, she shoved away from the table. An early phone call never boded well in her line of business, and usually meant trouble, a problem of some kind.
In the living room, Charlotte picked up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
“Charlotte, this is Bitsy Duhe.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose in dismay. Why on earth was Bitsy Duhe calling her at this time of the morning? She’d just seen the old lady yesterday.
Usually she cleaned Bitsy’s house on Tuesdays, but this week, Bitsy had asked her to work an extra day, so Charlotte had cleaned her house again on Thursday, which was normally her day off. Bitsy’s granddaughter was coming into town for the weekend to attend a Tulane alumni class reunion, and she had wanted everything extra spiffy for her granddaughter’s visit.
“Have you seen today’s headlines?” Bitsy asked.
Charlotte almost groaned out loud. She should have guessed. All Bitsy wanted was to gossip. And this morning, of all mornings, Charlotte was in no mood to put up with her. But typically Bitsy, the old lady launched into a spiel without waiting for any response from Charlotte.
“I heard that Jonas Tipton is going to be the presiding judge at the trial,” she said. “How that man is still sitting on the bench is a miracle. Why he’s older than I am, and Margo Jones told me he’s almost senile. Why, I heard that—”
“Miss Bitsy!” Charlotte sharply interrupted. “You know I would love to talk to you, but the fact is, I can’t—not about this or anything else to do with the case. I’m under strict orders from the D.A. not to discuss it with anyone.”
Charlotte hesitated only a moment, then, “And my goodness, just look at the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late. I’ll have to call you back later, okay? You take care and enjoy that granddaughter of yours. Bye now.”
Without giving Bitsy a chance to reply, Charlotte deliberately hung up the receiver. Even as she prayed that the old lady wouldn’t call back, she immediately felt a twinge of guilt for her uncharitable attitude.
Bitsy was simply lonely, an elderly lady with too much time on her hands. But it hadn’t always been that way. Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans and the couple had led an active social life, even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, and all she had left was their son and two granddaughters.
Unfortunately, Bitsy’s son and one of the granddaughters lived in California, and the other granddaughter lived in New York. Bitsy, starved for human contact and companionship, had nothing better to do than to spend hours on the phone, calling around and collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.
When Charlotte returned to the kitchen, she paused by the table and glanced again at the headline. She’d stretched the truth a bit when she’d told Bitsy what the D.A. had said. He’d actually warned her against giving any press interviews about her association with the Dubuissons.
As if she would, she thought, deeply offended by just the thought. One of the first rules she insisted upon when she hired a new employee was complete confidentiality concerning her clients. Gossiping about clients was strictly forbidden and grounds for immediate dismissal. With Charlotte, it was a matter of principle, of pride, and just good business sense that her clientele trust her and her employees.
Charlotte’s gaze shifted to the article below the headline. Temptation, like forbidden fruit, beckoned. The D.A. had also cautioned her about letting anything she read or heard in the news influence her in any way. But surely it wouldn’t hurt just to read a few lines….
Curiosity killed the cat. Charlotte closed her eyes and groaned. Curiosity, along with disobedience, was also the ruin of Adam and Eve. Before she could change her mind, she snatched up the paper, marched to the pantry, and stuffed it into the trash can.
Besides, she thought as she pulled a box of raisin bran from the pantry shelf, her upcoming birthday was enough to be depressed about. She walked to the cabinet, set the box of cereal on the counter, then took milk and apple juice out of the refrigerator. Dredging up the whole horrible affair connected with the Dubuissons would only make matters worse.
After her bowl of cereal and glass of juice, Charlotte checked Sweety Boy’s supply of water and birdseed.
“My goodness, you’ve been a thirsty boy,” she told him as she removed the water trough. “And hungry,” she added, also removing the birdseed container.
Once both were replenished, she ran her forefinger over the little bird’s velvety head. “Pretty boy,” she crooned. “Say Sweety Boy’s a pretty boy.”
For an answer, the parakeet ducked her finger and sidled over to the narrow space between her wrist and the cage door. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she told him as she nudged him away from the door, then quickly eased her hand out of the cage. “I don’t have time to let you out this morning.” She quickly latched the door. “Tonight,” she promised. “I’ll let you out for a while tonight.”
Having taken care of the little parakeet, Charlotte rushed through her shower, then dressed. At her dressing table, she glared in the mirror at her hair. Just as she’d figured, it was sticking out all over her head, and she made a face at the image in the mirror.
Staring at her hair again reminded her of Louis Thibodeaux and what he’d said about Judith. As she switched on the curling iron, her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t so much what Louis had said as what he hadn’t said. From his tone, he’d given her the impression that he didn’t think much of his replacement, but that could mean any number of things.
She’d definitely call Judith, she decided, as she automatically began applying her makeup while waiting for the curling iron to heat. She’d definitely call her today.
Charlotte applied a touch of mascara to her lashes. Another call she needed to make was to the beauty shop. So write it down now, so you won’t forget.
Removing the pen and small notebook she always kept in her apron pocket, she quickly jotted down a reminder. Slipping the pen and notebook back inside the pocket, she glanced again at her reflection. For now, though, she’d just have to make do.
With a sigh, she began winding strands of her hair around the warm curling iron, and as she attempted to bring some kind of order to her messy hair, she began plotting how she would worm information out of Judith about her new partner. Like Louis, her niece could also be closemouthed and evasive when it suited her.
The short commute to work each morning was just one of the many advantages of living near the Garden District where most of her clients were located. Normally the drive to Marian Hebert’s house took less than ten minutes even with the usual bumper-to-bumper morning traffic on Magazine.
Charlotte was a bit ahead of schedule until she tried to turn onto Sixth Street; there, traffic was at a complete standstill. Craning her head, she could see swirling police lights about a half a block ahead.
She glanced in her rearview mirror, but already a line of vehicles had formed and she was blocked in. With a sigh of impatience, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Being prompt was another of her strict rules, but she still had plenty of time, she decided as she drummed a staccato rhythm with her fingers against the steering wheel.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the traffic began to slowly move once again. When she drove past the source of the blinking lights, her heart sank.
“And another one bites the dust,” she muttered, eying the crew of men who were clearing away the debris from a huge oak limb that had split off and fallen into the street.
Between the recent drought conditions in south Louisiana and the Formosan termite invasion, the huge oaks that had shaded the Garden District for almost a century didn’t stand a chance. Despite the city’s all-out effort to fight the destructive insects, a lot of damage had already been done, and at times, it seemed like a losing battle.
Last night had only been a small storm, and Charlotte shuddered to think what kind of damage a full-blown hurricane might cause. So far, New Orleans had lucked out, though, and contrary to dire predictions from the weather experts, the hurricanes that had formed since June had chosen other paths to wreak their destruction.
Minutes later, Charlotte pulled up alongside the curb in front of Marian’s house and parked. Though not as ostentatious as the Dubuissons’ home had been, Marian’s raised cottage type was just as grand in its own way. Like so many of the homes in the Garden District, it was over a century old and had been lovingly renovated as well as updated to accommodate all of the modern conveniences.
As typical of a raised cottage type, the original floor plan had been simple and consisted of four rooms, evenly arranged and separated by a wide center hall. Raised six to eight feet off the ground, the main living area was on the second level, with a staircase in front leading to the entrance.
Marian and her late husband had remodeled the home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.
From the back of her van, Charlotte removed her supply carrier. She let herself in through the front gate then climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.
“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”
Immediate concern marred Charlotte’s face. “Marian, my goodness, what’s wrong?”
Not exactly the calm or serene type anyway, Marian looked even more flustered than usual. She was still dressed in her gown and robe, her pale face was devoid of makeup, and her dark hair looked as if she’d spent a hard night tossing and turning.
Marian backed away from the door so Charlotte could enter. “What’s not wrong would be a better question,” she answered, wringing her hands. “It’s days like this I really miss Bill. At times, I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she added in a whisper.
Charlotte made a sympathetic sound. It had been nine months since Marian’s husband had died in a freak accident involving a gas explosion at a house he was listing. Left with two young sons to raise, Marian now owned and operated the real estate company that had belonged to her husband before his death.
The company, according to Bitsy, had been failing miserably before Bill’s death, and Bill, according to the gossip mill, had either been outright murdered or had staged an elaborate suicide to look like an accidental death in order for Marian to collect his life insurance.
Charlotte chose to believe that Billy Joe Hebert’s death was simply a tragic accident. Nothing more, nothing less. The death of a loved one was hard enough to cope with without adding speculations that could do nothing but hurt the family even more, especially when there were children involved. Each time she thought about how vicious rumors and gossip could be, it left a sour taste in her mouth.
“B.J. did it again,” Marian continued in a quavery voice as she closed the door. A tear slid down her cheek. “What am I going to do about that boy?” she cried.
Chapter Three
C harlotte had only worked for Marian for five months. From the beginning, she’d discovered that the younger woman not only seemed fragile at times, but she often over-reacted to stressful situations. She’d thought Marian’s wide mood swings strange at first. But judging by the various vials of antidepressants and antianxiety medications she’d found when cleaning Marian’s bathroom one day, she’d decided that her employer was either bipolar or suffered from acute clinical depression.
Usually the medications kept Marian on an even keel. There had been times, though, like now, when Charlotte had smelled liquor on her breath, a definite no-no for someone with her mental problems, and to Charlotte’s way of thinking, a definite no-no for anyone at eight o’clock in the morning.
Marian pulled a tissue from her housecoat pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m at the end of my rope with that boy.”
“Now, now,” Charlotte soothed. “You’re upset right now, and when we’re upset, things sometimes seem a lot worse than they really are, especially when it concerns our children.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I—I just don’t know.” Marian shook her head. “You raised a son. Are they all so—so—” Marian threw up her hands.
“Unpredictable?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows as she filled in the blank. With a chuckle, she gave an exaggerated nod. “At times they are, along with aggravating, messy, loud, and just plain ornery, not to mention that they’ll eat you out of house and home. All boys go through a rebellious stage when they hit fifteen. And girls too.” Charlotte smiled, hoping to reassure the distraught woman. “Being rebellious is part of the requirement for being a teenager.”
“Even Hank?”
Charlotte nodded. “Even Dr. Hank LaRue, the great surgeon.” She grinned. “But don’t tell him I said so. He hates it when I remind him that he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.”
A tiny smile pulled at Marian’s lips, just the reaction Charlotte had hoped for. Though it was true that Hank had rebelled in his own way during his teenage years, it was also true that he’d never truly caused her the kind of heartache that Marian seemed to be experiencing with B.J.
Charlotte had always considered herself fortunate. Raising a child as a single parent wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination even under the best of circumstances. But unlike B.J., who’d at least had the benefit of having a father for the first fifteen years of his life, her Hank had never known his father.
Hank’s father…Don’t even go there, she told herself as she immediately slammed the mental door on the precious memories of her son’s father. Opening that door only made her sad, and she was depressed enough.
“And B.J.’s no different, just a typical teenage boy,” she continued. “It’s just his way of coping with changing hormones.” But even as Charlotte tried to reassure Marian, she was beginning to have her doubts.
“I don’t remember having all this trouble before Bill—before he—” Marian swallowed hard and pressed her lips into a tight line.
Charlotte patted her on the arm. “I’m sure that’s part of it. B.J. misses his father too. And I’m equally sure that some of his behavior is due to coping with his loss, but he’s a good boy and he’s going to be okay.”
“I wish I could believe that, but—” Marian shook her head. “I just can’t, not when things seem to be going from bad to worse. He’s failing in school, and just last week he got suspended for smoking. And now—now this!”
“This?”
Marian nodded. “He sneaked out again last night after curfew.”
“Again?”
Marian waved her hand. “I caught him sneaking out once before, but this time it was the police who caught him. Did you know the police have a Curfew Center on Rampart?” Without waiting for an answer, Marian shook her head. “Well, I didn’t, but I do now. I had to drag poor Aaron out of bed at midnight and go all the way over to Rampart to pick up B.J.—and that’s another thing. I’m going to have to cancel and reschedule an important appointment with a new client this morning because Aaron is—”
“Mom! Hurry!”
At the sound of the plaintive cry from Marian’s eight-year-old, she groaned, “Oh no, not again.” Giving Charlotte a harried look, she rushed down the hallway toward the boy’s bedroom. “Some kind of stomach virus,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s been throwing up off and on all night.”
Just seconds after Marian disappeared into the boy’s bedroom, Charlotte heard an awful retching sound. Poor little guy, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen. She’d have to remember to use gloves when she stripped Aaron’s bed and make sure she used disinfectant when she cleaned his bathroom. The last thing she needed or wanted was to catch a stomach virus.
The moment Charlotte stepped into the kitchen, she froze. From the looks of the room, it was hard to believe that she’d left it spotless on Wednesday, just two days ago. The entire kitchen was a disaster area. The stovetop was splattered with what appeared to be spaghetti sauce and grease, and there were dirty dishes everywhere…on the table, strewn along the countertops, piled haphazardly in the sink.
Charlotte frowned. How on earth could just three people use so many dishes? she wondered. Then she glanced at the floor and her frown deepened. She’d swept and mopped on Wednesday and had left it shiny clean. Now the light gray ceramic tile was marred with splotches of some unidentifiable dark liquid that had been spilled in front of the refrigerator, then again near the table. No one had bothered to wipe it up, and the stuff had congealed into a gooey glob.
Only one explanation for the mess made any sense, she decided. In spite of all the medications Marian was taking, her condition was getting worse. And that, along with B.J.’s escalating behavior problems, spelled real trouble.
Wondering how Marian would feel if she suggested that they might all benefit from some family counseling, Charlotte set down her supply carrier, then shoved up her sleeves.
It took almost an hour before Charlotte finally had the kitchen back in order. Giving the room a final inspection and a nod of approval, she turned her attention to the connecting family room.
Separated from the kitchen by a row of cabinets and an island, the large room was messy but not really dirty the way the kitchen had been. After she’d straightened and dusted the room, she made a quick trip to her van to bring in her vacuum cleaner. Years of experience had taught her to use her own equipment, equipment she knew she could rely on to do the job right.
She had just shut off the vacuum cleaner when Aaron wandered in.
“Mom said if it was okay with you, I could watch Cartoon Network.”
“That’s fine, hon,” she told him, unplugging the vacuum. “I’m finished in here anyway.”
With his blond hair and blue eyes, the boy reminded her a lot of her nephew, Daniel, when he was Aaron’s age. Though not as mischievous as Daniel had been, Aaron was usually rosy-cheeked, full of life, and extremely talkative. Today, though, the eight-year-old was pale and listless as he wandered over to the sofa.
“How are you feeling?”
The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug then mumbled something that sounded like, “Okay.”
“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
He shook his head. “Mom said I couldn’t have anything for a while. She’s afraid I’ll throw up again.” From the sofa table, he picked up the TV clicker and pointed it at the television set. Sounds of Tweety Bird and Sylvester soon filled the room.
Deciding that now was as good a time as ever to clean Aaron’s room, Charlotte unplugged the vacuum. Retrieving her supply carrier and dragging the vacuum along behind her, she headed down the hallway.
The little boy’s room was a large one, and almost every inch of the floor was covered with either Legos, Hot Wheels, or the DragonballZ and Gundam Wing action figures that had been made famous by Japanese cartoons.
The moment she stepped inside, Charlotte wrinkled her nose against the distinctive sour smell. Since the bed had been stripped down to the mattress, and the sheets and comforter were piled in a corner, it didn’t take her long to figure out that Aaron had been sick all over the bed during the night. She figured that the bedding was more than likely the source of the stench.
The pine-scented disinfectant she always used would go a long way in making the room smell better, but a good airing out would help even more, she decided, eyeing the large window.
The wood-framed window proved to be stubborn, but after tugging on it for several frustrating minutes, she finally got it raised. Almost immediately, a steady breeze filled the room with fresh air.
After pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, Charlotte gathered the pile of soiled bedding and clothes, then carried the bundle to the laundry room, located just behind the kitchen. While the washing machine filled with hot sudsy water, she separated the sheets from the comforter.
A large lump of something was tangled in the corner of the fitted bottom sheet. When Charlotte shook the sheet, a small teddy bear tumbled out, its dark brown furry covering matted and wet.
As Charlotte gingerly picked up the bear, she smiled. Hank had slept with a teddy bear too until he was just about Aaron’s age. Her smile widened. Hank had named his bear Company, and she wondered if Aaron had given his bear a name too. She’d once asked her son why he’d named it such an odd name, and he’d simply grinned and told her that he hadn’t. Then he’d reminded her that each night when she’d tucked him into bed, she’d always included the bear and told him it would keep him company, so he’d simply assumed that Company was the bear’s name.
But Hank was no longer a little boy like Aaron who slept with teddy bears. Nor was he a teenager like B.J. Charlotte’s smile faded, and a stab of longing knifed through her. Her Hank was a grown man now, almost forty-two. And you will be sixty in a few days.
Charlotte swallowed hard to ease the sudden tightness in her throat as she checked the tag on the Aaron’s teddy bear to see if it was washable. Once she’d determined that it was, she dropped it into the washing machine with the sheets.
Cleaning Aaron’s room was always a challenge. In Charlotte’s opinion, the boy had been overindulged since his father’s death and had enough toys for ten kids. Yet another sign of Marian’s instability, she thought as she separated the Legos from the Hot Wheels and dropped them into brightly colored plastic tubs that had been placed on a low shelf against the wall.
Before Charlotte began on B.J.’s room, she returned to the laundry room and transferred the sheets and bear from the washer to the dryer. When she came out of the laundry room, the sight of Marian standing near the kitchen counter gave her a start.
“Oh, Marian.” She placed her hand on her chest above her racing heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Marian waved at the toaster and loaf of bread. “Aaron says he’s hungry, and I thought some dry toast might be better for his stomach than a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I don’t want to even imagine the mess that would make if he threw it up,” she added with a shudder as she removed a slice of bread from the loaf and dropped it into the toaster.
“Me either,” Charlotte agreed, noting that Marian had finally dressed. An attractive woman in her late thirties, Marian was wearing a lightweight royal blue sweater and matching slacks that flattered her already slim figure.
What a difference a little makeup and the right clothes made, Charlotte thought, noting that the particular shade of blue was a perfect foil for the younger woman’s dark hair and flawless, ivory complexion. “How about some oatmeal to go along with the toast?” she suggested.
Marian shook her head as she turned on the toaster. “Thanks, but not yet. Maybe later, after we see if he can keep the toast down. And, Charlotte—” She hesitated, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I apologize for leaving such a mess in here, but the last couple of days have been pretty hectic. A terrific opportunity came up out of the blue—one of those offers too good to refuse. But I’ve had to really scramble to finalize the deal.”
Charlotte smiled and waved away her apology. “Hey, that’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”
Marian didn’t answer but gazed just past Charlotte to a window. “With Aaron sick, I need to make a call and cancel my luncheon appointment with Jefferson Harper,” she said, clearly distracted, as if talking to herself. “Maybe I can reschedule for tonight. B.J. could stay with Aaron…maybe have dinner with Jefferson instead of lunch.”
The toaster dinged and the slice of bread popped up, all evenly brown and crisp. Marian stared at it as if she had never seen it before. Then she shook her head and groaned. “Too many distractions,” she mumbled. “And too much to do.” She removed the toast and placed it on a saucer.
“Jefferson Harper,” Charlotte murmured. “Hmm, why does that name seem so familiar?” But as soon as she voiced the question out loud, she suddenly remembered where she’d heard the name before. “Isn’t he the nephew that inherited the old Devilier house on St. Charles?”
Marian nodded. “That’s the one. Jefferson’s mother was Foster Devilier’s sister. She and her husband died when Jefferson was just a young boy—a car accident I think—and Foster raised him. Since Foster never had children of his own, he left everything to Jefferson. Then about a year ago, Jefferson decided to renovate the old family home and turn it into luxury apartments. A friend of a friend recommended my firm to handle the leasing of the apartments.”
“Such a small world,” Charlotte murmured.
Marian frowned. “Excuse me?”
Charlotte waved a hand.
“Sorry, just thinking out loud. One of my employees has been dating the son of the man who did the Devilier renovations, and Maid-for-a-Day won the contract for the clean-up. I’ve scheduled the cleanup for tomorrow and Sunday. In fact, when I finish here today, I intend to go over to the Devilier house and take one last walk-through.”
“No kidding?”
Charlotte grinned. “I kid you not.” She stepped closer and took the saucer of toast from Marian’s hand. “Now you go ahead and make that call, and I’ll see that Aaron gets his toast. And what about a small glass of apple juice to go with it? We don’t want him to dehydrate.”
Marian nodded. “Thanks, Charlotte. And good idea about the apple juice, which reminds me—Aaron’s pediatrician is another call I need to add to the list,” she grumbled, clearly distracted once again. “Just to be on the safe side, I’d like for the doctor to check him over,” she added, still muttering to herself as she headed toward the door that led to her office. “That’s assuming that I can get an appointment.”
Charlotte simply shook her head and opened the refrigerator. The poor woman just couldn’t seem to get it all together this morning, she thought as she removed the bottle of apple juice.
Taking a glass out of the cabinet, Charlotte poured it full. Just as she put the bottle of juice back into the refrigerator, Marian rushed back in the kitchen.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she cried, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes bright. “I just had the most fantastic idea. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with a gimmick to advertise those apartments. Between you and me, the price Jefferson wants for them is outrageous. So what if—as an added incentive—I offered the prospective clients free weekly maid service? That would make them even more exclusive, and the monthly rent could be padded just a bit to absorb the cost. So what do you think?”
If the monthly rent was already outrageous, Charlotte wasn’t sure that adding an additional fee, even if it was for maid service, would be any more appealing. But Marian’s excitement was infectious, and a slow grin pulled at Charlotte’s lips as her mind raced with the possibilities. As it stood, her schedule was pretty packed already. She’d have to hire a couple of extra employees. But that wouldn’t be a problem, and over the long haul, the added income might be well worth it.
“I think that’s a terrific idea,” Charlotte finally told her. “But only if Maid-for-a-Day supplied the service. Otherwise, I think it’s a terrible idea,” she added with mock seriousness.
Marian burst out laughing. “Silly woman. Well, of course Maid-for-a-Day would supply the service. Now, if I can just sell the idea to Jefferson Harper—but first I need to see if he can meet for dinner tonight instead of lunch.”
The more Charlotte thought about Marian’s proposition over the next couple of hours as she cleaned, the more excited she became.
When noon rolled around, she chose to take her lunch break out on Marian’s front porch. While she ate the smoked turkey sandwich and apple she’d brought along with her and savored the deliciously cool air and sunshine, she mentally weighed the pros and cons of Marian’s idea.
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, a tiny, persistent voice of reason warned her. “I’m not,” she muttered. “I’m simply thinking ahead.” But when she pulled the notebook out of her apron pocket to do a bit of calculating, she saw the reminder she’d written earlier about calling the beauty shop, and she frowned.
She’d fully intended to call early in hopes that her beautician could work her in around the time she finished up at Marian’s, but now…
Charlotte pulled out her cell phone and quickly punched in the number of the beauty salon.
Her call was answered on the third ring.
“Lagniappe Beauty Salon, Valerie speaking.”
“Valerie, this is Charlotte LaRue—”
“Oh, hey, Charlotte. I’ve been meaning to call you—to thank you.”
Charlotte frowned. “To thank me—thank me for what?”
“Not what, silly. Who. Why, none other than Mrs. Bitsy Duhe is now a regular customer of mine. She said she’d always admired the way your hair looked, and her regular hair-dresser wasn’t that dependable.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. Had she ever mentioned Valerie to Bitsy? She didn’t remember doing so, but then lately there seemed to be a lot she didn’t remember.
“And she wants a standing appointment,” Valerie continued. “Every Friday morning. Isn’t that terrific?”
Though she wasn’t exactly sure why, Charlotte felt a bit funny about Bitsy using the same beautician that she used. But she forced an enthusiasm she didn’t feel anyway. After all, it was a free country. “That’s great, hon,” she told Valerie. “And speaking of appointments, I need one. And I’m afraid I’m in a bind. If at all possible, I desperately need a haircut today.”
“Hmm, I’m looking at my afternoon appointments here. I can probably work you in around four.”
Charlotte frowned in thought. A haircut and blow-dry shouldn’t take more than an hour. If she finished up at Marian’s by three forty-five, she should still have enough time to check out the Devilier house before dark. “Four sounds great,” Charlotte told her. “See you then.”
As she slipped the cell phone back inside her pocket, Charlotte’s frown deepened. Was her memory getting worse of late? Should she be concerned? What if she was going senile, or what if, heaven forbid, she was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s? What if…
Stop it, Charlotte. Stop it right now.
With a shake of her head, she ripped the reminder note off the pad, wadded it up, then stuffed it in her pocket. The new job. Think of the job Marian was talking about earlier.
All along, even before she’d known for sure she had won the Devilier contract, she’d planned on adding the profits from the job to her retirement account. By doing the job on the weekend, she’d figured she could utilize all of her regular employees without having to hire extra help, thereby ensuring a larger profit margin.
But the Devilier job was a onetime deal. What Marian was proposing could be a continuous income for several years to come, and would go a long way toward ensuring her financial independence.
She quickly scribbled down some numbers, calculating the amount she would need to charge. A moment later, she looked up from the number figure she’d come up with and stared with unseeing eyes at the passing traffic in front of Marian’s house. For months Hank had been pressuring her to retire and let him take care of her. Though she half suspected that her son was just a wee bit embarrassed because his mother still worked as a maid, she knew that deep down, he truly had the best of intentions.
The fact that Hank could well afford to support her wasn’t even a consideration. As far as Charlotte was concerned, the whole idea of retirement was simply out of the question. To begin with, she had no plans for retiring any time soon. Retire to what? What on earth would she do with herself all day long, day in and day out? Why, she’d be bored silly. But besides boredom, just the thought of having to depend on Hank or anyone else, for that matter, gave her the willies. Doing such a thing, in her opinion, would be the ultimate admission that she truly was getting old.
Since Marian’s office was Charlotte’s least favorite room to clean, she always saved it for last.
Marian seemed to have a real knack for dealing in real estate, and by all accounts had turned her husband’s failing business into a profitable venture. But in Charlotte’s opinion, the woman’s organizational skills left a lot to be desired.
Since the very first day that Charlotte had worked for Marian, the younger woman had made it clear that nothing was to be moved around in the office, so cleaning the room was a real challenge. And dusting it was a nightmare due to the stacks of papers and mail that were piled on every available surface.
But Charlotte had learned a few tricks over the months. Each stack was dealt with on a one-by-one basis. First she’d carefully move the stack; then, after dusting and waxing the space where it had sat, she placed it in the same position she’d found it to begin with. That way, she could leave the room looking exactly the same, only clean and free of dust.
As usual, Marian was seated at the computer when Charlotte entered the office. By mutual consent, normally neither woman spoke or disturbed the other while working, so it was a complete surprise when Marian turned away from the computer and struck up a conversation.
“So far, so good,” she said.
Charlotte frowned. “Pardon?”
“Aaron,” Marian qualified. “Since he was able to keep the toast and juice down earlier, I gave him some chicken noodle soup and crackers for lunch, and so far, he hasn’t throw it up yet. Maybe—just maybe, the worst of this awful virus is over.”
Charlotte smiled and set down her supply carrier. “We’ll certainly hope so for Aaron’s sake. Poor little guy.”
Marian nodded in agreement. “I’m still taking him to the doctor though, just as a precaution. I was able to get an appointment for this afternoon—Oh, and by the way, I was also able to change my appointment with Jefferson Harper as well.
“Before my meeting, though, I’d like to rework my original proposal to include a rough estimate for the maid service we discussed earlier. Later, we’ll draw up an official contract, of course, but what I need right now is an amount—just a ballpark figure—for what you would charge for supplying weekly service for each apartment.”
Charlotte stepped closer to the desk. “I understand there are four apartments in the building. Is that correct?”
When Marian nodded, Charlotte pretended to do a quick mental calculation. After all, business was business, as Hank was always reminding her. These people are your clients, Mother. They’re not your friends. It was a lesson she’d learned the hard way, dealing with her former clients, the Dubuissons. And, in all fairness to her son, she had to agree that it was just plain good business sense not to let a prospective client know how eager she was about a job.
With just four apartments, she’d already figured out that she’d only have to hire one additional full-time employee. She pointed at a pen and pad of paper. “May I?” she asked.
When Marian nodded, Charlotte picked up the pen and proceeded to jot down the figures she’d done earlier. The first figure she came up with was a calculation of the number of hours per week needed to service the four apartments. Then she multiplied the resulting figure by the hourly wage she normally charged a client. Built into that figure was her margin of profit, an allowance for cleaning supplies, and insurance, as well as the employee’s hourly wage and benefits. Circling the final figure, she pointed at it with the pen.
“This total per week should be pretty accurate,” she told Marian.
Marian stared at the figure for several seconds, then nodded. “Good. At least now I have something to work with.”
When the phone jangled, both women jumped at the unexpected intrusion. Just as Marian reached for the receiver, Aaron cried out.
“Mom! I’m sick again!”
With a long-suffering but worried look, Marian shoved away from the computer and stood. “Guess I spoke too soon,” she said, casting an irritated glare at the phone as it rang again. “That could be a call I’m expecting.”
“Mom! Hurry!”
“I’m coming, Aaron,” she yelled. To Charlotte she said, “Could you get that for me?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she rushed toward the door. “Just take a number,” she said over her shoulder, “and tell them I’ll call them right back.”
As Marian disappeared through the door, Charlotte picked up the phone. “Hebert Real Estate. May I help you?”
There was no response for several seconds, then…“Charlotte? Is that you, Charlotte?”
“Ah…yes. May I ask—”
“So now Marian has you answering the phone too. Or have you gone into real estate instead of the cleaning business?”
Charlotte frowned, trying to place the familiar female voice. When a mental image of a former client named Katherine Bergeron suddenly clicked into place, her frown turned into a warm smile. “No, Katherine,” she answered. “I still run Maid-for-a-Day. I wouldn’t know the first thing about selling real estate. But my goodness, what has it been, at least a couple of years since I’ve seen you? I’m amazed you recognized my voice.”
“Process of elimination, Charlotte. Marian probably didn’t mention it, but I’m the one who recommended you to her in the first place. We’ve known each other for years. Why, Bill and Marian grew up with my husband, and we were all the best of friends. Bill even once worked for my father. Then after Daddy died and Drew took over the firm, Bill worked for him as well until he decided to jump ship and form his own company.”
Charlotte already knew about Bill Hebert’s association with her former client, thanks to Bitsy. Once Bitsy had learned that Charlotte was working for Marian Hebert, she’d been quick to fill Charlotte in on all the gossip concerning Marian’s husband. And according to Bitsy, Bill’s and Drew Bergeron’s parting had been a bitter one, though Bitsy didn’t know exactly why.
“But, Charlotte,” Katherine continued, “I would have recognized your voice anyway. You know I’ve never forgiven you for leaving me, especially in my delicate condition.”
“Now, Katherine, that’s not fair and you know it. There’s no way I can work exclusively for anyone, besides which, with you threatening to miscarry and all, you needed specialized help at the time. And speaking of your former delicate condition, how is that baby girl of yours? What is she now? Almost four?”
“She’ll turn four in November. And she’s not a baby anymore. What she is, though, is a handful. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled her rotten ever since…”
…ever since Drew’s death…. Charlotte mentally completed Katherine’s sentence. It had been a tragic accident—Drew Bergeron’s small private plane had gone down in a storm over the Gulf of Mexico two years earlier—made even more tragic since his body was never recovered. And knowing the reason for the sudden silence on the other end of the phone, Charlotte rushed in to fill the gap. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think a little spoiling will hurt her,” she offered.
“Oh, Charlotte, that’s what I truly miss about you. You always seemed to understand and know just the right thing to say. If it wasn’t for Daisy being such a jewel, I’d try to steal you back from Marian in a heartbeat.”
“I take it that Daisy is still with you then.”
“Yes—yes, she is, and I can never thank you enough for recommending her. In fact, in a roundabout way, she’s the reason I’m calling Marian. Daisy told me she’d heard that Marian is handling the Devilier apartments. Daisy knew that I’ve been looking for something to use as a guest residence for out-of-town friends during Mardi Gras and the Jazz Fest. Since those apartments are just down the block from me, they would be a perfect location. Is Marian in?”
Charlotte glanced up and was surprised to see Marian standing in the doorway. How long had she been standing there? Charlotte wondered. How long had she been listening and watching? And why the strange look, a seething look of bitterness that was totally out of character?
Charlotte shifted uneasily, and though she averted her gaze, she couldn’t shake the image of Marian’s expression or the uncomfortable feeling it gave her.
Chapter Four
“H old on a moment, Katherine, and I’ll see if she can take your call.”
“Thanks, Charlotte,” Katherine replied, “and it’s been really nice talking to you again.”
“Same here,” Charlotte answered. Muffling the receiver against her chest, she glanced over at Marian again. “It’s Katherine Bergeron,” she told her softly. “She wants to talk about leasing one of the Devilier apartments.”
Several moments passed in which Charlotte feared that Marian was going to refuse the call. Finally, as if gathering her strength, Marian took a deep breath, and letting it out in a heavy sigh, she stepped over to the desk and took the receiver from Charlotte.
As Marian greeted Katherine, she was all business, her tone brisk as she paced back and forth in front of the desk.
Still puzzled by Marian’s initial reaction to the call since, according to Katherine, she and Marian were such good friends, Charlotte took her time gathering her supplies. Normally, she didn’t make a habit of eavesdropping on her clients, but Marian’s strange, erratic behavior worried her.
“No, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our appointment,” Charlotte heard Marian say. “Aaron is sick,” she explained. “Just a stomach virus, I think, but I’m taking him to the doctor later this afternoon, and I expect to be tied up most of the weekend. If you want to, however, you could still look at the apartments on your own. B.J. should be home soon, and I’ll leave an extra set of keys with him. One thing though,” she added. “Right now the apartments aren’t very presentable. They’re a mess—construction and all of that. But if you wait until Sunday afternoon, they should be cleaned up by then.”
Still puzzled but satisfied that Marian was handling things okay and not wanting to seem too obvious about eavesdropping, Charlotte chose that moment to slip out of the room. After loading her vacuum cleaner and supplies into her van, she returned to the office to let Marian know she was leaving.
She found Marian seated at the desk, her head slumped forward.
“Ah, excuse me, but I wanted to let you know that I’m leaving now.”
Marian slowly raised her head, and when she faced Charlotte and nodded, there was a glazed look of despair about her.
Charlotte stepped closer. “Are you okay?”
The younger woman gave a one-shouldered shrug that reminded Charlotte of Aaron’s earlier gesture.
“Oh, Marian, what’s wrong?” she asked, growing more concerned.
“It’s just—I—” Marian shook her head. “Ever since Bill died, it’s been a strain to even talk to Katherine. It takes everything I have to be civil. Katherine still insists on holding on to the fantasy that Bill was the one who quit working for Drew, that he resigned in order to start his own company. And she refuses to even acknowledge that the real reason Bill left the agency was that Drew out-and-out fired him. After it happened, things were never the same again between us, any of us.”
When Bitsy had first told Charlotte about Drew’s and Bill’s relationship, Charlotte had ignored the information as simply gossip. But now it seemed as if the old lady had been right all along. It also explained Marian’s initial reaction to Katherine’s call.
“It didn’t use to be that way,” Marian continued in a sad, longing voice. “There was a time when the three of us—Bill, Drew, and I—were inseparable. Then, when Drew married Katherine, we grew even closer…for a while. But that was a long time ago…an eternity.”
Charlotte squeezed Marian’s shoulder. “I wonder, have you ever considered that maybe Katherine truly doesn’t realize what really happened, that Drew fired Bill? Maybe she only knows what her husband told her,” she offered by way of explanation.
Marian simply stared at Charlotte. “Oh, I’ve considered it all right. At first. I even tried to set her straight about it. But ever since Drew’s plane went down, she’s been different. She only hears what she wants to hear, and she absolutely refuses to listen to anything negative about him. In her eyes, he was a saint.” Marian laughed, a bitter sound without humor. “But I knew him long before he married Katherine. And I know what he’s—what he was capable of. Drew Bergeron was no saint by any stretch of the imagination. But, hey—” Marian suddenly brightened, albeit assuming a facade that Charlotte recognized for what it was, a cover-up for her embarrassment. “I’m sure you have better things to do than to listen to my boring past.”
Charlotte smiled gently. “Any time you need someone to talk to, my middle name is discretion.” Then, to save Marian further embarrassment, Charlotte changed the subject. “I do have to get going though, but good luck with Aaron—I hope he feels better soon—and I’ll see you on Monday.”
After retrieving her purse from the kitchen, Charlotte stopped by Aaron’s room on her way out to say good-bye. But the little boy was curled up on his bed, fast asleep.
The sleep of the angels, she thought. All little children looked like angels while they slept. How many times had she stood just inside her own little boy’s bedroom and simply watched him sleep? Not enough, she decided as a heavy feeling settled in her chest. And her son was no longer a little boy but a grown man.
Unbidden, a quote from Agatha Christie popped into her mind. One doesn’t recognize in one’s life the really important moments—not until it’s too late. No truer words had ever been spoken, Charlotte decided as the heaviness in her chest grew. If only she’d known then what she knew now, if she’d realized how fast the years would go by, just how soon she’d be facing her sixtieth birthday, wouldn’t she have savored those moments a lot more?
Easing out of the room, Charlotte felt a tear slide down her cheek. Maybe she would have, she thought as she slowly made her way down the hall. At least she hoped she would have.
Outside, the afternoon sky was clouding over, giving the day a dreary cast that only seemed to deepen Charlotte’s melancholy mood. As she trudged slowly down the narrow sidewalk to the van, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. The temptation to simply go home and crawl into bed was strong. But she still had her hair appointment, and as she’d told Marian, she still had one more chore to do, one last walk-through at the old Devilier house, all before she could call it a day.
Charlotte glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she just might have enough time to do the walk-through before it got dark.
With a heavy sigh, she pulled the van keys out of her apron pocket, but just as she unlocked the door, a battered old truck pulled up behind the van.
Recognizing the white truck, she almost groaned out loud. “Great,” she muttered. “Just what I need right now.”
The driver’s side of the truck opened. “Hey there, Charlotte. I was wondering if I’d have the pleasure of seeing you today.”
Charlotte forced a friendly smile. Careful though. Mustn’t act too friendly, she reminded herself. She’d learned early on that being discreet was the name of the game when dealing with the man approaching her.
Sam Roberts was a handyman of sorts who had been employed by Marian’s husband first, then by Marian after her husband’s death. If it hadn’t been for the scraggly beard that Sam wore, he could have easily passed for a Willie Nelson look-alike.
But that was where any comparison between the two men came to a screeching halt. In Charlotte’s opinion, Sam talked too much, for one thing. And he was loud. But it was the flirting that really got her goat. Not that she minded flirting. She’d been flirted with before and had done some flirting back, but Sam was different. She’d tried telling herself that his teasing was just his way of being friendly, but every time she talked to him, he always managed to say something that was just off-color enough to be offensive and make her really uncomfortable.
Now be nice, Charlotte, her conscience cautioned.
Charlotte had always been the type of person to look for something positive about everyone she met, and she had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Sam had his good points too. According to Marian, he’d proven to be indispensable since Bill’s death. And in all fairness, he worked hard and was good at his job. He also appeared to really care about Marian and her boys. From what she’d observed, he was always patient and kind to the boys despite Aaron’s endless questions and B.J.’s sullen ways. And come to think of it, she’d noticed a marked difference in B.J.’s rebellious attitude any time that Sam was around. The teenager actually seemed to admire Sam, even look up to him. The good Lord only knew, the boy needed someone he could respect.
“So how’s everything going with you, pretty lady?” Sam’s dark eyes slowly raked her from head to foot, then back again. “Got everything under control…” His words trailed away suggestively. “Everything’s all neat and tidied up as usual? Up at the house?” he finally added.
His inference was offensive and Charlotte responded with chilly politeness. “Everything’s just fine up at the house.”
Sam grinned knowingly. “Now, Charlotte, if you’d be nicer to me, I might be persuaded to take you out on the town and show you a good time.” He waggled his eyebrows, à la Groucho Marx. “Hey, a little jazz, a little razzmatazz…” He held out his arms and shuffled his feet, executing an intricate dance step. Then, without warning, he suddenly grabbed her. Before she could utter a protest, he whirled her around, and it was either follow him or stumble over her own feet. When she finally did open her mouth in protest, he abruptly stopped and released her, and Charlotte swallowed her protest.
In an instant, he grew sober, and a stilted expression came over his face as he took a step backward. “Or maybe madame would prefer something a bit more cultured around our fair city,” he said in a pseudo cultured voice. Bending forward at the waist in a mock formal bow, he continued. “A museum? Or the symphony? Or perhaps the opera?” He suddenly smirked. “If we had an opera, that is,” he added.
The whole thing had happened in a matter of moments, and Charlotte was still trying to recover from the shock of it all. He’d asked her out before, and she suspected that he already knew that her answer would always be no. He simply wasn’t her type. Still, he asked every time he saw her.
Gathering her wits about her, she forced a saccharine smile. “Thanks for asking, but no thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He slapped his hand over his chest in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh,” he groaned. “You wound me deeply, fair lady.”
“Yeah, right!” she retorted, unable to suppress the sarcastic rejoinder. “Sam Roberts, you’re about as full of baloney as they come.” The man was incorrigible and outrageous to boot. “Now—if you’ll excuse me—I have places to go and things to do.”
Sam threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That’s what I like about you, Charlotte. You say what you mean and mean what you say—but here, let me get that door for you.”
With one hand he opened the door of the van, and with his other hand, he made a wide sweeping arc. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”
Charlotte stiffened, not sure of what to expect next, but she wasted no time climbing inside the van. To her relief, Sam simply shut the door.
“You take care now, Miss Charlotte,” he told her, with a mock salute. “See ya next time.”
Not if I see you first, Charlotte thought as she drove away.
Though Charlotte had good intentions, it was almost six before she finally pulled into the small parking lot behind the Devilier house. When she’d arrived for her hair appointment, Valerie was still busy with another customer and she’d had to wait a precious twenty minutes for her turn. Then she’d gotten stuck in a traffic jam, thanks to a malfunctioning traffic light and the usual Friday five o’clock rush of commuters trying to get a jump start on the weekend.
The parking area behind the Devilier house took up about half of the back property, and Charlotte estimated that it was just large enough to accommodate eight to ten vehicles.
The other half of the backyard had been turned into a small garden area, an oasis landscaped with azaleas, sweet olive, small palms, and night-blooming jasmine.
At the edge of the parking lot was a magnificent live oak that had to be at least a hundred years old judging from its size alone. The oak offered shade both to the parking lot and to the garden.
As Charlotte admired the old oak, she wondered if the tree was a member of the exclusive Live Oak Society. It always made her smile when she thought about the unusual club where membership requirements were based on the age and size of the oak, and dues consisted of forty-five acorns a year.
“Nowhere but New Orleans,” she murmured.
Charlotte’s smile faded. Time was a-wasting. It was already twilight, and soon the twilight would fade into darkness. For safety’s sake, Charlotte didn’t like the idea of being caught all alone in the big old empty house after dark.
Vince Roussel, the owner of the construction company in charge of the renovation, had given her a master key. With the house key firmly in one hand and her car keys in the other, she locked the van and hurried to the back entrance of the house.
Thank goodness enough light poured in through the fanlight above the door for her to see, Charlotte thought as she stepped into the back hallway. Roussel had assured her that the electricity and the water would be turned on by the time her crew came in for the cleanup, but the moment she was inside, she tested the light switches just to make sure. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when lights in the dim entrance hall came on.
“Awesome,” she whispered, as her eyes swept over the wide hallway. The Devilier house on the outside was a wonderful specimen of the Greek Revival era. Charlotte had been in many magnificent homes over the years she’d worked in the Garden District, but even with the thick layer of sawdust and dirt that seemed to cover every available surface, the inside of the Devilier renovation was a thing of beauty with its high ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, and the intricately molded ceiling medallions and cornices.
In keeping with the luxurious ambience of the house, along one wall was an Empire chaise longue upholstered in a bluish-green brocade with dark gold trim. Two matching, gilded lyre-back chairs flanked a small marble-top table on the opposite side. On top of the table was a gorgeous Tiffany-styled lamp.
Charlotte frowned. Why on earth had they already delivered the furniture, especially the lamp? All of that should have been delivered after her crew cleaned up. She swiped her finger along the back of the chaise longue. At least it was protected with a clear plastic wrap. Good thing it was, since the dust was as thick as mud. Her gaze strayed to the lamp again. She’d have to caution her crew to be careful around that lamp. It looked expensive, and she didn’t want to have to replace it if someone got careless and broke it.
Eager to explore the rest of the house, and ever conscious of time passing, Charlotte dropped the keys in one side of her apron pocket and removed her notebook and pen from the other side.
The downstairs was divided into two small apartments, each almost identical and each consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combination living area and small galley-type kitchen. What truly impressed her and surprised her was the luxuriousness of each apartment. As in the grand entrance hall, great care had been taken to preserve and restore the original structure, and the workmanship was superb.
As she toured the first downstairs apartment, she was relieved to note that though it was certainly dirty, the cleanup work would be mostly routine stuff. And if the rest of the apartments were like the first one, there was a good chance that most of the work could be completed on Saturday. She might not need the crew for Sunday too, which would mean more money in her pocket.
Judging by the looks of the living room, the degree of cleaning needed in the second downstairs apartment was much the same as the first. Except this one had mosquitos, she thought as she swatted at one buzzing her head then slapped at one that bit her ankle.
With a frown of annoyance, she glanced around. Where were they coming from? she wondered as she walked over to the windows in the living room.
Both windows in the living room were closed and locked, though, and it was in the bedroom that Charlotte finally located the entry source of the pesky insects. There was one lone window in the room, and not only was it raised a couple of inches, but the outside screen was missing as well.
On her pad, Charlotte jotted down a note to call Vince Roussel about the missing screen and the open window.
Once Charlotte had finished her inspection downstairs, she climbed the wide spiral staircase to the second floor. At the top landing she made a quick note to report a deep gouge in the wood on the sixth step that needed repairing.
Like the downstairs, the second floor was also divided into two apartments. The first one she walked through had the same layout as the two on the bottom floor, and again, she figured that the clean-up would be routine.
Because of the open window on the first floor, Charlotte made sure she checked all of the windows before doing her tour of the fourth and final apartment.
As she checked the last window in the bedroom, she suddenly realized that the very thing she’d feared had already happened. Twilight was gone, and darkness had set in for the night.
Even as an uneasy feeling crawled through her, Charlotte hurried across the hall to the final apartment. The moment she entered the apartment, though, she forgot about the dark, forgot about everything.
“What on earth?” she exclaimed as she stared at the living area.
Chapter Four
“H old on a moment, Katherine, and I’ll see if she can take your call.”
“Thanks, Charlotte,” Katherine replied, “and it’s been really nice talking to you again.”
“Same here,” Charlotte answered. Muffling the receiver against her chest, she glanced over at Marian again. “It’s Katherine Bergeron,” she told her softly. “She wants to talk about leasing one of the Devilier apartments.”
Several moments passed in which Charlotte feared that Marian was going to refuse the call. Finally, as if gathering her strength, Marian took a deep breath, and letting it out in a heavy sigh, she stepped over to the desk and took the receiver from Charlotte.
As Marian greeted Katherine, she was all business, her tone brisk as she paced back and forth in front of the desk.
Still puzzled by Marian’s initial reaction to the call since, according to Katherine, she and Marian were such good friends, Charlotte took her time gathering her supplies. Normally, she didn’t make a habit of eavesdropping on her clients, but Marian’s strange, erratic behavior worried her.
“No, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our appointment,” Charlotte heard Marian say. “Aaron is sick,” she explained. “Just a stomach virus, I think, but I’m taking him to the doctor later this afternoon, and I expect to be tied up most of the weekend. If you want to, however, you could still look at the apartments on your own. B.J. should be home soon, and I’ll leave an extra set of keys with him. One thing though,” she added. “Right now the apartments aren’t very presentable. They’re a mess—construction and all of that. But if you wait until Sunday afternoon, they should be cleaned up by then.”
Still puzzled but satisfied that Marian was handling things okay and not wanting to seem too obvious about eavesdropping, Charlotte chose that moment to slip out of the room. After loading her vacuum cleaner and supplies into her van, she returned to the office to let Marian know she was leaving.
She found Marian seated at the desk, her head slumped forward.
“Ah, excuse me, but I wanted to let you know that I’m leaving now.”
Marian slowly raised her head, and when she faced Charlotte and nodded, there was a glazed look of despair about her.
Charlotte stepped closer. “Are you okay?”
The younger woman gave a one-shouldered shrug that reminded Charlotte of Aaron’s earlier gesture.
“Oh, Marian, what’s wrong?” she asked, growing more concerned.
“It’s just—I—” Marian shook her head. “Ever since Bill died, it’s been a strain to even talk to Katherine. It takes everything I have to be civil. Katherine still insists on holding on to the fantasy that Bill was the one who quit working for Drew, that he resigned in order to start his own company. And she refuses to even acknowledge that the real reason Bill left the agency was that Drew out-and-out fired him. After it happened, things were never the same again between us, any of us.”
When Bitsy had first told Charlotte about Drew’s and Bill’s relationship, Charlotte had ignored the information as simply gossip. But now it seemed as if the old lady had been right all along. It also explained Marian’s initial reaction to Katherine’s call.
“It didn’t use to be that way,” Marian continued in a sad, longing voice. “There was a time when the three of us—Bill, Drew, and I—were inseparable. Then, when Drew married Katherine, we grew even closer…for a while. But that was a long time ago…an eternity.”
Charlotte squeezed Marian’s shoulder. “I wonder, have you ever considered that maybe Katherine truly doesn’t realize what really happened, that Drew fired Bill? Maybe she only knows what her husband told her,” she offered by way of explanation.
Marian simply stared at Charlotte. “Oh, I’ve considered it all right. At first. I even tried to set her straight about it. But ever since Drew’s plane went down, she’s been different. She only hears what she wants to hear, and she absolutely refuses to listen to anything negative about him. In her eyes, he was a saint.” Marian laughed, a bitter sound without humor. “But I knew him long before he married Katherine. And I know what he’s—what he was capable of. Drew Bergeron was no saint by any stretch of the imagination. But, hey—” Marian suddenly brightened, albeit assuming a facade that Charlotte recognized for what it was, a cover-up for her embarrassment. “I’m sure you have better things to do than to listen to my boring past.”
Charlotte smiled gently. “Any time you need someone to talk to, my middle name is discretion.” Then, to save Marian further embarrassment, Charlotte changed the subject. “I do have to get going though, but good luck with Aaron—I hope he feels better soon—and I’ll see you on Monday.”
After retrieving her purse from the kitchen, Charlotte stopped by Aaron’s room on her way out to say good-bye. But the little boy was curled up on his bed, fast asleep.
The sleep of the angels, she thought. All little children looked like angels while they slept. How many times had she stood just inside her own little boy’s bedroom and simply watched him sleep? Not enough, she decided as a heavy feeling settled in her chest. And her son was no longer a little boy but a grown man.
Unbidden, a quote from Agatha Christie popped into her mind. One doesn’t recognize in one’s life the really important moments—not until it’s too late. No truer words had ever been spoken, Charlotte decided as the heaviness in her chest grew. If only she’d known then what she knew now, if she’d realized how fast the years would go by, just how soon she’d be facing her sixtieth birthday, wouldn’t she have savored those moments a lot more?
Easing out of the room, Charlotte felt a tear slide down her cheek. Maybe she would have, she thought as she slowly made her way down the hall. At least she hoped she would have.
Outside, the afternoon sky was clouding over, giving the day a dreary cast that only seemed to deepen Charlotte’s melancholy mood. As she trudged slowly down the narrow sidewalk to the van, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. The temptation to simply go home and crawl into bed was strong. But she still had her hair appointment, and as she’d told Marian, she still had one more chore to do, one last walk-through at the old Devilier house, all before she could call it a day.
Charlotte glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she just might have enough time to do the walk-through before it got dark.
With a heavy sigh, she pulled the van keys out of her apron pocket, but just as she unlocked the door, a battered old truck pulled up behind the van.
Recognizing the white truck, she almost groaned out loud. “Great,” she muttered. “Just what I need right now.”
The driver’s side of the truck opened. “Hey there, Charlotte. I was wondering if I’d have the pleasure of seeing you today.”
Charlotte forced a friendly smile. Careful though. Mustn’t act too friendly, she reminded herself. She’d learned early on that being discreet was the name of the game when dealing with the man approaching her.
Sam Roberts was a handyman of sorts who had been employed by Marian’s husband first, then by Marian after her husband’s death. If it hadn’t been for the scraggly beard that Sam wore, he could have easily passed for a Willie Nelson look-alike.
But that was where any comparison between the two men came to a screeching halt. In Charlotte’s opinion, Sam talked too much, for one thing. And he was loud. But it was the flirting that really got her goat. Not that she minded flirting. She’d been flirted with before and had done some flirting back, but Sam was different. She’d tried telling herself that his teasing was just his way of being friendly, but every time she talked to him, he always managed to say something that was just off-color enough to be offensive and make her really uncomfortable.
Now be nice, Charlotte, her conscience cautioned.
Charlotte had always been the type of person to look for something positive about everyone she met, and she had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Sam had his good points too. According to Marian, he’d proven to be indispensable since Bill’s death. And in all fairness, he worked hard and was good at his job. He also appeared to really care about Marian and her boys. From what she’d observed, he was always patient and kind to the boys despite Aaron’s endless questions and B.J.’s sullen ways. And come to think of it, she’d noticed a marked difference in B.J.’s rebellious attitude any time that Sam was around. The teenager actually seemed to admire Sam, even look up to him. The good Lord only knew, the boy needed someone he could respect.
“So how’s everything going with you, pretty lady?” Sam’s dark eyes slowly raked her from head to foot, then back again. “Got everything under control…” His words trailed away suggestively. “Everything’s all neat and tidied up as usual? Up at the house?” he finally added.
His inference was offensive and Charlotte responded with chilly politeness. “Everything’s just fine up at the house.”
Sam grinned knowingly. “Now, Charlotte, if you’d be nicer to me, I might be persuaded to take you out on the town and show you a good time.” He waggled his eyebrows, à la Groucho Marx. “Hey, a little jazz, a little razzmatazz…” He held out his arms and shuffled his feet, executing an intricate dance step. Then, without warning, he suddenly grabbed her. Before she could utter a protest, he whirled her around, and it was either follow him or stumble over her own feet. When she finally did open her mouth in protest, he abruptly stopped and released her, and Charlotte swallowed her protest.
In an instant, he grew sober, and a stilted expression came over his face as he took a step backward. “Or maybe madame would prefer something a bit more cultured around our fair city,” he said in a pseudo cultured voice. Bending forward at the waist in a mock formal bow, he continued. “A museum? Or the symphony? Or perhaps the opera?” He suddenly smirked. “If we had an opera, that is,” he added.
The whole thing had happened in a matter of moments, and Charlotte was still trying to recover from the shock of it all. He’d asked her out before, and she suspected that he already knew that her answer would always be no. He simply wasn’t her type. Still, he asked every time he saw her.
Gathering her wits about her, she forced a saccharine smile. “Thanks for asking, but no thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He slapped his hand over his chest in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh,” he groaned. “You wound me deeply, fair lady.”
“Yeah, right!” she retorted, unable to suppress the sarcastic rejoinder. “Sam Roberts, you’re about as full of baloney as they come.” The man was incorrigible and outrageous to boot. “Now—if you’ll excuse me—I have places to go and things to do.”
Sam threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That’s what I like about you, Charlotte. You say what you mean and mean what you say—but here, let me get that door for you.”
With one hand he opened the door of the van, and with his other hand, he made a wide sweeping arc. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”
Charlotte stiffened, not sure of what to expect next, but she wasted no time climbing inside the van. To her relief, Sam simply shut the door.
“You take care now, Miss Charlotte,” he told her, with a mock salute. “See ya next time.”
Not if I see you first, Charlotte thought as she drove away.
Though Charlotte had good intentions, it was almost six before she finally pulled into the small parking lot behind the Devilier house. When she’d arrived for her hair appointment, Valerie was still busy with another customer and she’d had to wait a precious twenty minutes for her turn. Then she’d gotten stuck in a traffic jam, thanks to a malfunctioning traffic light and the usual Friday five o’clock rush of commuters trying to get a jump start on the weekend.
The parking area behind the Devilier house took up about half of the back property, and Charlotte estimated that it was just large enough to accommodate eight to ten vehicles.
The other half of the backyard had been turned into a small garden area, an oasis landscaped with azaleas, sweet olive, small palms, and night-blooming jasmine.
At the edge of the parking lot was a magnificent live oak that had to be at least a hundred years old judging from its size alone. The oak offered shade both to the parking lot and to the garden.
As Charlotte admired the old oak, she wondered if the tree was a member of the exclusive Live Oak Society. It always made her smile when she thought about the unusual club where membership requirements were based on the age and size of the oak, and dues consisted of forty-five acorns a year.
“Nowhere but New Orleans,” she murmured.
Charlotte’s smile faded. Time was a-wasting. It was already twilight, and soon the twilight would fade into darkness. For safety’s sake, Charlotte didn’t like the idea of being caught all alone in the big old empty house after dark.
Vince Roussel, the owner of the construction company in charge of the renovation, had given her a master key. With the house key firmly in one hand and her car keys in the other, she locked the van and hurried to the back entrance of the house.
Thank goodness enough light poured in through the fanlight above the door for her to see, Charlotte thought as she stepped into the back hallway. Roussel had assured her that the electricity and the water would be turned on by the time her crew came in for the cleanup, but the moment she was inside, she tested the light switches just to make sure. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when lights in the dim entrance hall came on.
“Awesome,” she whispered, as her eyes swept over the wide hallway. The Devilier house on the outside was a wonderful specimen of the Greek Revival era. Charlotte had been in many magnificent homes over the years she’d worked in the Garden District, but even with the thick layer of sawdust and dirt that seemed to cover every available surface, the inside of the Devilier renovation was a thing of beauty with its high ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, and the intricately molded ceiling medallions and cornices.
In keeping with the luxurious ambience of the house, along one wall was an Empire chaise longue upholstered in a bluish-green brocade with dark gold trim. Two matching, gilded lyre-back chairs flanked a small marble-top table on the opposite side. On top of the table was a gorgeous Tiffany-styled lamp.
Charlotte frowned. Why on earth had they already delivered the furniture, especially the lamp? All of that should have been delivered after her crew cleaned up. She swiped her finger along the back of the chaise longue. At least it was protected with a clear plastic wrap. Good thing it was, since the dust was as thick as mud. Her gaze strayed to the lamp again. She’d have to caution her crew to be careful around that lamp. It looked expensive, and she didn’t want to have to replace it if someone got careless and broke it.
Eager to explore the rest of the house, and ever conscious of time passing, Charlotte dropped the keys in one side of her apron pocket and removed her notebook and pen from the other side.
The downstairs was divided into two small apartments, each almost identical and each consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combination living area and small galley-type kitchen. What truly impressed her and surprised her was the luxuriousness of each apartment. As in the grand entrance hall, great care had been taken to preserve and restore the original structure, and the workmanship was superb.
As she toured the first downstairs apartment, she was relieved to note that though it was certainly dirty, the cleanup work would be mostly routine stuff. And if the rest of the apartments were like the first one, there was a good chance that most of the work could be completed on Saturday. She might not need the crew for Sunday too, which would mean more money in her pocket.
Judging by the looks of the living room, the degree of cleaning needed in the second downstairs apartment was much the same as the first. Except this one had mosquitos, she thought as she swatted at one buzzing her head then slapped at one that bit her ankle.
With a frown of annoyance, she glanced around. Where were they coming from? she wondered as she walked over to the windows in the living room.
Both windows in the living room were closed and locked, though, and it was in the bedroom that Charlotte finally located the entry source of the pesky insects. There was one lone window in the room, and not only was it raised a couple of inches, but the outside screen was missing as well.
On her pad, Charlotte jotted down a note to call Vince Roussel about the missing screen and the open window.
Once Charlotte had finished her inspection downstairs, she climbed the wide spiral staircase to the second floor. At the top landing she made a quick note to report a deep gouge in the wood on the sixth step that needed repairing.
Like the downstairs, the second floor was also divided into two apartments. The first one she walked through had the same layout as the two on the bottom floor, and again, she figured that the clean-up would be routine.
Because of the open window on the first floor, Charlotte made sure she checked all of the windows before doing her tour of the fourth and final apartment.
As she checked the last window in the bedroom, she suddenly realized that the very thing she’d feared had already happened. Twilight was gone, and darkness had set in for the night.
Even as an uneasy feeling crawled through her, Charlotte hurried across the hall to the final apartment. The moment she entered the apartment, though, she forgot about the dark, forgot about everything.
“What on earth?” she exclaimed as she stared at the living area.
Last, but never least, my thanks to Evan Marshall, my agent, and John Scognamiglio, my editor. Their support and inspiration have been invaluable.
Any mistakes made or liberties taken in the name of fiction are solely my own.
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