Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 02 - Death Tidies Up p.03

Chapter Eleven
C harlotte awoke with a start, her heart racing beneath her breasts. A dream, it was just a dream, she kept telling herself. But no, it had been far worse than just a dream. It had been a full-blown nightmare…every single woman’s nightmare.

Still feeling a bit disoriented even as her heart slowed to a steady thud, she frowned when she suddenly realized that she was on the living room sofa instead of her bed.

And the television was on.

Her frown deepened. “Oh great,” she grumbled. “Just wonderful.” On the TV screen, Clint Eastwood had his gun drawn and was trying to break down a door. It was a scene from an old Dirty Harry episode that she recognized all too well. That was what had probably awakened her to begin with.

So what time was it anyway? When she turned her head to look up at the cuckoo clock on the wall above the sofa, she suddenly groaned with pain and grabbed the back right side of her neck. Not only was it just barely six o’clock—not even daylight yet—but worse, now she had a crick in her neck.

“That’s what you get for falling asleep on the sofa,” she muttered.

From beneath the cover over his cage, Sweety Boy squawked.

“No, it’s not time to get up yet,” she said irritably. “Go back to sleep.”

Careful to keep her head straight, she eased herself up. Once she was standing, she decided that maybe an aspirin would help, that and another hour or so of sleep…in her bed, this time.



It seemed that only minutes had passed when Charlotte again awoke with a start, this time to the sound of a ringing in her ears. Several seconds passed before she realized that the ringing was actually the doorbell, and several more seconds passed before it dawned on her that tiny jets of sunlight were peeping through the closed blinds that covered her solitary bedroom window.

A quick glance at her clock radio on the bedside table told her it was almost nine, but who on earth would be at her door this early on a Sunday morning?

As if he’d heard her unspoken question, Louis Thibodeaux’s muffled voice called out, “Charlotte, answer the door. I know you’re in there.”

Charlotte groaned, “Oh, good grief!”

“Charlotte!”

“Hold your horses!” she yelled. “Just a minute!”

When she tried to sit up, the dull ache in her neck reminded her of the crick she’d gotten from sleeping on the sofa. Though the aspirin had numbed the pain somewhat, the crick was still there.

Wondering why on earth Louis was at her door so early, she slipped into her housecoat and the moccasins she favored for house shoes. Then she quickly brushed her hair.

At least her hair wasn’t sticking out all over the place the way it had been on Friday morning, she thought, eyeing her reflection in the mirror one last time before heading for the living room. The new haircut had helped, and despite her restless night, her hair had fallen nicely in place. She’d have to remember to tell Valerie how pleased she was with it the next time she saw her.

Now if she could only have a cup of coffee before facing Louis, she thought irritably as she unlocked the front door to let him in.

Unlike Charlotte, Louis was dressed. His hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a tiny telltale cut on his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving.

The moment Louis said, “Good morning,” and stepped through the doorway, Sweety Boy began squawking inside the covered cage as if he was being terrorized.

“That bird doesn’t like me.”

Ignoring Louis for the moment, Charlotte turned her attention toward the cage. “It’s okay, Boy,” she soothed, easing the cover off the cage. “Calm down now. It’s okay.”

After a moment, the little parakeet’s squawks quieted to an occasional pitiful chirp as he hovered on his perch, and Charlotte faced Louis again.

With a quick scowl directed at the cage, he asked, “Were you still sleeping?”

The hint of disapproval in his tone grated on her caffeine-starved nerves, and Charlotte simply glared up at him. “Duh, it is Sunday morning,” she told him.

“But you’re always up by seven at the latest. And no, I haven’t been spying on you or playing Peeping Tom,” he added, “so just get that look off your face. You and I both know that the walls in this old house are almost thin enough to see through.”

It was true. The dividing wall between his half of the double and hers wasn’t that thick or insulated, if at all, and too many nights and mornings, she’d heard his movements on the other side of that wall. It stood to reason that if she could hear him, he could hear her as well.

“Are you sick?”

“No,” she snapped. “I am not sick, and I’m getting pretty tired of everyone insisting that there’s something wrong with me. But—if you must know—I simply didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Louis’ eyebrows slanted into a frown. “Okay, you’re not sick, so what’s wrong with your neck?”

Charlotte shot him a withering glance, and instead of answering him, she motioned toward the kitchen. “Do you mind if I put on a pot of coffee first, Mr. Detective? Before you interrogate me,” she added.

“No need to get sarcastic,” he answered. “And by all means, have some coffee. Maybe it will improve your disposition.” Then he suddenly smirked. “Fell asleep on the sofa and got a crick, didn’t you?”

To keep from hauling off and punching him, Charlotte did an about-face and stomped off toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Charlotte,” he called out from behind her. “Don’t get mad. The only reason I knew about the crick was because I’ve done it myself a few times.”

Charlotte paused in the doorway of the kitchen, but she didn’t turn around. Between gritted teeth, she asked, “Is there a specific reason you’re over here this morning, or is this a social visit? Because if this is a social visit—”

“Actually, I’m here on official business,” he said, cutting her off. “Official police business,” he added, moving closer toward her. “I have to ask you some more questions about yesterday.”

“I should have guessed as much,” she grumbled, heading for the pantry where she kept the coffee.

“Well, given your—ah—attitude, the questions can wait until after you’ve had coffee.”

He was right, she thought as she filled the coffeepot with water and scooped coffee into the filter basket. She did have an attitude. But why? she wondered. Why did everything and everyone seem to irritate her lately, and for no real reason? Just because she felt as if she could chew nails was no excuse to take it out on Louis.

Hoping a few moments alone would help, and conscious of the time, Charlotte excused herself for a few minutes to put on her makeup while the coffee dripped. Church services began promptly at ten-thirty, and she figured if she allowed an hour for Louis’ questions, she should still have time to finish dressing before she needed to leave.

By the time she’d applied a bit of makeup, she felt somewhat better and a little more in control. When she returned to the kitchen, Louis was seated at the table staring out the back window. He’d already poured them each a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, and the smell was heavenly.

“I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself,” he told her as she sat down opposite him.

Charlotte started to shake her head but winced when a sharp pain shot through the side of her neck. “No, not at all,” she finally told him with a dismissive wave of her hand once the pain subsided.

“What you need for that crick is a good massage,” he told her, and before she realized his intentions or could protest, he had shoved out of his chair and was standing behind her.

The touch of his warm hands on her neck was a shock at first, and she went still even as her senses leaped to life.

“No, now don’t tense up,” he told her. “Just relax and drink your coffee.”

Relax? Yeah, right, she thought as the palms of his hands slid against her skin while his thumbs gently but firmly kneaded the sore muscles in the side of her neck.

She should probably protest. She really should. But at the moment she was still too stunned to utter a sound, and there was no way on God’s green earth that she could casually sit there and drink coffee while he was doing such delicious things to her stiff neck.

How long had it been since she’d experienced a man’s hands on her? she wondered, relaxing somewhat in spite of herself. Too long, she decided as an unexpected warmth surged through her when his forefingers brushed just below her earlobes.

“You’re tensing up again,” he warned as his fingers slipped down to just beneath the top edge of her pajamas and housecoat to knead the top of her shoulders as well.

A part of her wanted to relax, and she tried. She really tried. But that other part of her, the sensible, practical part, kept whispering all the reasons she shouldn’t.

Then suddenly, it was no longer even an issue. “There now,” he said, with one last, warm squeeze before he withdrew his hands. “That should feel better.”

Almost as quickly as it had begun, it had ended, and within moments, he was once again seated across the table from her.

All Charlotte could do was stare at him while her cheeks burned and her thick tongue refused to function. Ridiculous, she thought. This is ridiculous. In a few days she would be sixty years old, and here she was, acting like the worst cliché of a simpering virgin just because a man had touched her intimately.

“Ah—th-thanks,” she finally blurted out as she slowly rotated her head from side to side. “That does feel a lot better.”

“You’re welcome,” he told her. Then, as if he suspected how awkward the moment was for her, he pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket and got right down to business.

“Why don’t we start from the beginning,” he suggested as he thumbed through the notebook. “Start from the time you first arrived—no, on second thought, start further back than that. On Friday night, when you did your walk-through, did you notice anything unusual or out of place then?”

Charlotte’s throat suddenly went dry. Knowing Louis, he wasn’t going to be too pleased with her answer…if she told the truth. To give herself a moment to think about how she should answer, she took a slow sip of the still-warm coffee. By the time she finally set the cup down, she’d decided that there was no way around it, no choice but to tell the truth, straight out.

“I meant to mention this Friday night during dinner,” she said. “And I started to—if you recall—but I got sidetracked when you began talking about Vince Roussel and his son, Todd. Once we got caught up in picking out all of that stuff for your house—” She shrugged. “I forgot about the Devilier house.”

Louis never once interrupted her as she began explaining about all the signs she’d found that made her think that someone had been camping out in the old house. And throughout her explanation, he maintained a poker face that didn’t give her a clue as to his reaction to what she was telling him, one way or another.

“I really meant to tell you,” she said when she had finished. “But—” She shrugged.

“And I suppose you conveniently forgot to mention it again yesterday when Judith was questioning you.”

The tone of his voice should have warned her, but Charlotte ignored it. “If you remember right,” she continued, “I was a bit upset yesterday, what with finding poor Drew’s body and all. Then, after I fainted, I—”

Suddenly, without warning, Louis slammed his fist against the table so hard that coffee sloshed over the edge of the cups. “Poor Drew, my hind foot!” he roared. “I can’t believe this crap! Of all the asinine stunts you’ve pulled, this one takes the cake.” He leaned menacingly across the table. “Did it ever occur to you even once that after finding that stuff on Friday night, going back in there by yourself on Saturday might have been dangerous? And what about poor Drew?” He spat the words out as if they were bitterly foul. “Maybe, just maybe, if you had mentioned this stuff on Friday night, then poor Drew might still be alive instead of dead meat on a slab at the morgue?”

All Charlotte could do was stare at him in stunned disbelief. She’d expected him to be upset that she hadn’t told him what she’d found. And she was both gratified and annoyed that he was concerned with her safety, but the very idea that she was somehow responsible for…

Shock quickly yielded to fury, and she jumped to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered. “How dare you sit there and say such things to me! And how dare you insinuate that Drew Bergeron’s death is my fault.”

“Sit down, Charlotte!” he warned in a no-nonsense tone.

“I will not sit down. You owe me an apology, and either you apologize or you can get out of my house right this minute.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I—I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Louis shot back. “Call the police?”

Long seconds ticked by as Charlotte tried, and failed, to come up with a response. Then, from the doorway, an unexpected voice suddenly intruded.

“Hey, you guys!”

Charlotte and Louis both turned to stare as Judith marched into the kitchen.

“Did I hear someone say something about calling the police? And what’s all the shouting about? I could hear you two all the way out in the driveway.”

“Detective Thibodeaux was just leaving,” Charlotte snapped as she marched over to the cabinet and yanked a paper towel off the towel rack beside the sink.

“No, Detective Thibodeaux was not just leaving,” Louis drawled. “Detective Thibodeaux was just fix’n to apologize to your aunt for being so rude and disrespectful and losing his temper. But your aunt did a very foolish thing.”

“Yeah, so I gathered from the parts I heard,” Judith replied. “In fact, the whole neighborhood probably heard it.” She turned to Charlotte. “Well?” she asked. “Is he leaving or staying? Whichever, I would love to have a cup of that coffee.”

“What are you doing here?” Charlotte asked, ignoring her niece’s question as she blotted up the coffee off the table.

“I came to offer you a ride to church.” Judith looked pointedly at Charlotte’s housecoat. “But since you’re obviously not dressed yet, I don’t think we’re going to make it on time.”

“Don’t blame me.” Charlotte turned to glare at Louis. “It’s all his fault.”

“She’s right,” Louis said. “I came over to ask her some questions and—well—I guess things sort of got out of hand.” He slid his gaze to Charlotte. “Again, I apologize.”

Charlotte stiffened. “As well you should,” she retorted.

“Don’t push it, Charlotte,” he warned.

She wanted to say more, was tempted to really give him a piece of her mind. But what good would it do? After all, he had apologized. Now all that was left was to either back down gracefully or come off looking like a shrew.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, this is ridiculous.” She motioned at Judith. “Sit down, and I’ll get you some coffee.”

“I guess this means that you’re not going to tell me what started the squabble to begin with?”

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

Judith stared at her a moment too long, then a tiny smile pulled at her lips as she shook her head. “Have it your way, Auntie,” she said as she seated herself at the table. “I’m sure Lou will fill me in. And no, I haven’t had breakfast yet. No time,” she added. “Actually, I’m still working on the Bergeron murder. I intended on dropping you off at church, then I was going to come back here and see if I could pick Lou’s brain. I figured that after the service, you could catch a ride with either Mother or Hank to her house.”

Charlotte deposited the paper towel in the trash. “It won’t take but a minute to fix some eggs and toast, and since it’s too late to go to church—” She shot Louis a quick accusatory glare. “You can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. You can eat and talk to Detective Thibodeaux at the same time.”

Charlotte started toward the pantry, but after a couple of steps, she paused. “Oh, and by the way.” She turned and gave Judith a knowing look. “Offering me a ride was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but let’s get one thing straight. In spite of what you and my son think, one little fainting spell does not mean I need chauffeuring around. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself anywhere I need to go. And one more thing, while I’m at it.” She turned to glare at Louis again. “Though I appreciate your concern for my safety, Detective Thibodeaux, I’ve been looking out for myself a long time now, and I’m perfectly capable of knowing what’s safe and what’s not safe.”

Louis’ response was a grunt that indicated otherwise. Then, he leaned toward Judith. “Well, I guess she told us.”

Judith nodded gravely. “She always has been a bit on the stubborn side.”

Charlotte simply shook her head in annoyance and busied herself gathering the ingredients she needed from the pantry and the refrigerator for the impromptu breakfast.

Eavesdropping was not something Charlotte ordinarily approved of, but as she prepared the food, there was no way she could ignore the conversation between Judith and Louis.

“So, little girl,” Louis asked, “where’s that hotshot partner of yours this morning?”

“Don’t start that with me, Lou,” Judith warned. “But if you must know, he’s back at the precinct, going over the reports from the crime scene.”

There it was again, Charlotte thought as she cracked the last of a half a dozen eggs, dumped the yolk and egg white into the bowl, then poured in a dollop of milk. Why the contempt every time Louis mentioned Judith’s new partner? she wondered as she added a dash of salt and pepper, then began beating the mixture with a fork. What was wrong with Will Richeaux? What had he done that would cause Louis to be so hostile?

Making a mental note to question Judith about it later, she dropped a glob of butter into the skillet she had heating on the stove burner.

By the time she had the eggs and toast ready and had set the table, Charlotte had learned that Drew Bergeron was killed by a single gunshot to the forehead, execution style. The gun used was a twenty-two caliber. Since, according to Louis, it was the type of gun that could be bought just about anywhere, it would be almost impossible to trace.

But what Judith seemed most interested in was Louis’ impressions as to why Drew Bergeron would have been in town to begin with, especially after going to all the trouble of faking his own death.

“He had to have known he would be recognized by someone,” Judith said. “Surely he wasn’t that stupid.”

“That I can’t say,” Louis told her. “All depends on if and why he faked his first death to begin with. Have you talked to his wife yet?”

Judith shook her head. “I wanted to talk to you first, then I’m heading over there. And I have to say, that’s one chore I’m not looking forward to.”

At the mention of Katherine Bergeron, Charlotte felt her chest grow heavy with pity. She couldn’t begin to imagine how it would feel to have to cope with something like that.

“Well, there could be all kinds of reasons he showed up here again,” Louis told Judith, “but it would be a safe bet to put money at the top of the list as the number-one reason. Seems like it always boils down to money.”

When Charlotte placed the food on the table, Judith got up to refill everyone’s coffee cup.

Once Judith was seated again, she continued her questions. “So, yesterday you said you recognized Bergeron because you’d had dealings with him, Lou. What kind of dealings?”

“Way back when,” he told her as he spooned a generous helping of eggs on his plate, “before his first so-called death, it was rumored that Bergeron was connected with Vince Roussel’s crowd. I was investigating a murder that involved one of Roussel’s crew at the time—a muscle-bound lowlife that we suspected of being Roussel’s enforcer. We’d found this lowlife’s body floating in the river. At first we figured that he’d crossed Roussel, and Roussel killed him.

“Anyway—the lowlife had been seen with Bergeron the day before he was killed, so”—Louis shrugged—“I questioned Bergeron. According to what he told me, his only connection to Roussel had to do with a so-called business deal, a real estate venture on the North Shore. He claimed he and Roussel’s enforcer just met by coincidence. What he didn’t tell me and what I learned later was that his deal fell through and he owed Roussel a ton of money.”

Judith chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast while Charlotte took a bite of her eggs.

“Think that could have anything to do with why Bergeron might have faked his own death?” Judith finally asked. “From what I gathered, Vince Roussel isn’t someone you’d want to be in debt to.”

Louis shrugged. “It’s a good place to start. Roussel could have sent the enforcer after Bergeron, and Bergeron offed him, then staged his own accident to get Roussel off his back. But of course there’s no way to prove it.”


Chapter Twelve
F rom what I gathered, Vince Roussel is not someone you would want to be in debt to.

Judith’s words still haunted Charlotte long after her niece and Louis had left. As she pulled her van into an empty parking spot at her sister’s apartment complex, she wondered what, if anything, she could say or do to persuade Cheré that these people were not the kind that she should be associating with.

Charlotte frowned at she climbed out of the van and locked it. She should have talked to Cheré yesterday about Todd Roussel, when she had the chance.

So why didn’t you?

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she walked toward her sister’s apartment, and her footsteps slowed. She’d forgotten. Plain and simple, it had completely slipped her mind. Oh, it was easy enough to excuse her lapse of memory, what with everything that had happened at the Devilier house. But this wasn’t the first time that she’d forgotten something important lately. There had been other instances over the past few weeks, other tiny details that she’d overlooked.

First the forgetfulness, then the fainting spell. Were Judith and Hank right? Could something be wrong with her?

Charlotte took a deep breath, then released it with a heavy sigh…. just because you’re turning sixty doesn’t mean you’re that old yet…

Though Charlotte didn’t usually put much stock in anything her sister said, for once, Madeline was right, she decided. Sixty wasn’t really that old, and it certainly didn’t automatically mean she was going senile. Not yet. And there was no use worrying about any of it anyway. Worrying was counterproductive and wouldn’t change anything. If and when she found out there was something wrong with her, then she’d do whatever had to be done to cope with it. She always had.

Charlotte raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she got the chance.

“I was watching for you through the window,” her son explained as he reached out and pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. Charlotte breathed in the scent of him and smiled. He was wearing the cologne she’d bought him for his birthday, a brand that smelled similar to the one she’d once given his father so many years ago.

When Hank pulled away, he said, “I missed you at church. How are you feeling today? Any more fainting spells?”

Patience, she reminded herself as she looked up at him. Patience is a virtue. Besides, Hank’s concern was because he loved her. She smiled. “I’m fine, hon,” she told him, patting his freshly shaved cheek.

A tall and lean man, her son had piercing blue eyes and sandy-colored hair with just a hint of gray at the temples. Just the sight of him filled her to overflowing with a mother’s pride, and there were times, like now, when he so resembled his father that it took her breath away.

Charlotte felt her eyes grow misty and her throat tighten. Oh, how she wished her son and his father could have known each other, had wished it a thousand times. She’d often wondered if it would have made a difference if Hank Senior had known he’d fathered a son. Many a lonely night she’d thought that he might have tried harder to stay alive if he’d known.

But he hadn’t known. There hadn’t been time to tell him. Instead, he’d died, just one of the many first casualties of a war in Southeast Asia that should never have been fought to begin with.

Charlotte swallowed hard and shoved the painful memories back into that tiny compartment of her mind reserved for those she’d loved and lost.

Clearing her throat, she asked, “Who all’s here?” She peeped around his shoulder. “Did Carol come with you?”

A slim, attractive woman with warm brown eyes suddenly appeared in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the small living room. “Yes, I’m here, Charlotte,” she called out.

Carol Jones was a nurse whom Hank had been seeing for several months, and Charlotte had high hopes that any day now, Hank would announce their engagement and impending marriage. Unlike her son’s ex-wife, Mindy, Carol was a generous, caring woman who was sensible as well as practical, all traits that strongly appealed to Charlotte. And, in Charlotte’s opinion, Carol was the best shot she had of ever becoming a grandmother. Carol loved children.

Again, sadness pulled at her heart, sadness for her unborn grandchild that Hank’s ex-wife had so heartlessly aborted.

“Everyone’s on the patio,” Carol told her, drawing Charlotte’s attention back to the present.

After a quick hug, Carol looped her arm through Charlotte’s and urged her toward the kitchen. “Madeline gave us strict instructions to bring you out there as soon as you arrived. But what’s this I hear about you fainting yesterday?”

Charlotte chose to ignore the question. “I like your hair that way,” she said instead. Normally, Carol wore her dark, shoulder-length hair in a classic pageboy style, but today, she’d pulled it back and secured it with a large barrette, a style that strongly emphasized her high cheekbones.

“Carol shrugged. “Thanks. This is what happens when I don’t have time to wash it. I worked the evening shift last night and didn’t get relieved until half the night shift was over. I ended up oversleeping because someone we both know and love”—she shot Hank a pointed look—“forgot to call me when he was supposed to.”

Hank just shrugged. “I figured you needed sleep more than your hair needed washing.”

Suddenly, a child’s ear-piercing squeal rent the air, and all three of them froze.

“Is that who I think it is?” Charlotte asked Hank.

Hank groaned but nodded. “Little Davy, in the flesh. According to his mother, that horrible noise he just made is his latest trick to get her attention.”

Charlotte grinned. “So Daniel finally did it. I had wondered when he was going to get up enough nerve to invite Nadia and Davy to one of our little gatherings.”

When Nadia’s live-in boyfriend had been arrested for theft five months earlier, she hadn’t been able to afford an attorney. She’d shown up on Charlotte’s doorstep in tears. She said her son kept crying for his father, and she didn’t know where to turn or what to do.

Though Charlotte had never cared for Ricco Martinez, she felt sorry for Nadia and Davy, and she had persuaded Daniel to take Ricco’s case pro bono. Daniel had been willing, but once he’d gotten Ricco out on bail, Ricco had abruptly disappeared without a word to anyone.

At first Daniel had continued seeing Nadia, using the excuse that he was simply lending legal support. But he hadn’t fooled Charlotte. She knew better. She had sensed right away that her nephew had fallen for Nadia and Davy. Nadia had been reluctant in the beginning, but with Ricco out of the picture, Daniel’s persistence and kindness was finally paying off, and nothing could have pleased Charlotte more.

“How’s your aunt taking it?” Charlotte asked Hank.

“Better than I would have thought,” he answered. “She was a little distant at first—you know how Aunt Maddie can get—but I think she knows that she doesn’t have much say in the matter. Once my cousin sets his mind on something, he can be every bit as stubborn as you ever thought about being.”

“Well, he could do a lot worse,” Charlotte avowed, ignoring her son’s gibe. “Nadia is a lovely person, and Davy is as cute as a button. And speaking of children, when are—”

Hank immediately cut her off. “Don’t even go there, Mother.”

Charlotte sighed and Carol grinned. It wasn’t the first time she had tried to hint that she wanted a grandchild, and it wouldn’t be the last, she vowed. After all, she certainly wasn’t getting any younger and neither was her son.

Then Hank, like the gentleman his mother had raised him to be, opened the back door and ushered the two women through to the backyard.

Though Madeline’s patio and backyard were small, the area was adequate for the small gathering. Daniel was hovering over the smoking barbecue pit near the fence, and Madeline and Nadia were setting out food on the picnic table, while Davy was busy stalking something through the tall grass near the corner of the fence.

“Hey, Aunt Charley,” Daniel called out. “You’re just in time.”

Madeline and Nadia glanced up from their tasks. “Not just in time, but about time,” Madeline scolded. “Where have you been? Judith said she left your place over two hours ago. And another thing.” Her stern expression suddenly softened, and a secretive smile played at her lips. “What’s this I hear about Louis being there with you still in your robe?” she teased. “Come on, Charlotte, do tell.”

At that moment, Charlotte could have happily choked her sister. When she ventured a quick glance at her son and found him staring at her with an amused but curious expression on his face, she felt a slow flush creep up her neck.

Telling herself that she was too old to be embarrassed so easily over a bit of teasing, and that the warmth that had now reached her cheeks was not a blush, she smiled sweetly. “Police business, sister dear. Detective Thibodeaux had some more questions about yesterday.”

“Yeah, right,” Madeline quipped with a giggle. Then she quickly sobered. “Speaking of yesterday,” She made a face. “As usual, my daughter was tight-lipped and wouldn’t tell me any of the real juicy stuff when she called.” She nudged Nadia with her elbow. “Maybe now we can get the real scoop.”

Nadia simply smiled indulgently. “Not if I know Charlotte. She’s the last person you’ll get to gossip about anything.”

Little Davy chose that particular moment to let out another of his earsplitting squeals, diverting everyone’s attention.

“Oh, Davy, honey, no-no.” Nadia rushed toward her son. In his pudgy fingers was what appeared to be a small green lizard, wriggling frantically in an attempt to regain its freedom. “Let that poor thing go,” Nadia told him as she pried his fingers apart.

Evidently none the worse for wear, the tiny reptile promptly scurried away. When it disappeared in the grass, Davy screwed up his face and began to wail as if his little heart had been broken.

Seizing upon the opportunity to avoid discussing the events of the previous day, Charlotte hurried over to help comfort the little boy.

“Hey, little man,” she cooed. “What’s all this crying about?” She knelt down beside him, and seeking something to distract him, she pointed at his T-shirt. “I sure do like your shirt, but who’s that silly-looking bear on it? I’ll bet his name is Tigger.”

Davy shook his head. “Not Tigger,” he whimpered.

Charlotte pretended to be confused. “Maybe Piglet?”

“Pooh Bear,” the little boy declared, the lizard forgotten momentarily. He patted the figure on his shirt. “Name Pooh Bear.”

“Hey, Davy—” Without warning, Daniel suddenly appeared beside them and scooped the little boy up in his arms. “How about an airplane ride?” Amid Davy’s giggles of delight, Daniel lifted the little boy above his head. Making a guttural roaring noise, Daniel began loping back and forth around the small backyard.

With Davy distracted, Madeline continued as if she’d never been interrupted. “You know that after Drew Bergeron’s father-in-law died, the firm I work for began handling City Realty’s bookkeeping,” she said.

In spite of her earlier reluctance to discuss the matter, Charlotte found herself curious. “His father-in-law was Maurice Sinclair, wasn’t he?”

Madeline nodded. “After the old man’s death, Drew stepped in and took over City Realty, and the first thing he did was move their account to our firm.”

“I wonder why,” Charlotte murmured.

“Probably had something to do with the deal he was working on with Roussel Construction,” Madeline said. “My boss and Vince Roussel go back a long way, and since we handled their books, I guess he figured it would be easier all the way around.”

“Do y’all still handle City Realty?”

Madeline shook her head. “A couple of months after Drew’s funeral, his wife switched everything back to the firm her father had always used before.”

“Hey, Mom,” Daniel called out, interrupting them. “Davy and I think the chicken looks like it’s about done, so could you bring that platter over?”

“I’ll take it,” Nadia volunteered.

“Thanks,” Madeline told her. “And I guess that means I need to get the rest of the food out so we can eat.”

“I’ll help you,” Charlotte offered.

“And Hank and I will put ice in the glasses,” Carol volunteered.

By the time they had all settled around the table and said the blessings, much to Charlotte’s relief the Devilier house and Drew Bergeron’s murder were forgotten for the moment…or so she’d thought.

While everyone stuffed themselves with Daniel’s barbecued chicken and Madeline’s sour-cream potato salad and baked beans, conversation turned to All Saints’ Day and Halloween.

“I wonder which cemetery they’ll bury Drew Bergeron in this time,” Madeline commented, tongue in cheek. “Whichever, he couldn’t have picked a better time to have another funeral.”

“Madeline!”

“Mother!”

Ignoring Charlotte’s and Daniel’s gasps of disbelief, Madeline shot them a defiant look. “Well, it’s true,” she said. “Why, just last Friday, I noticed a group already working in Lafayette Number One.”

Lafayette Number One, located on Washington Avenue, was just one of over thirty aboveground cemeteries located throughout the city. As in most of Louisiana, the two weeks leading up to All Saints’ Day was a time when everyone gathered to pay homage to their dead by cleaning and beautifying the cemeteries. Armed with buckets of whitewash, scrubbing brushes, and gardening tools, families would gather in the cemeteries and spend hours laboring away so that the tombs and grounds were tidy and neat for All Saints’ Day.

Madeline cast a wary eye toward Charlotte. “Are you going this year?”

Though Charlotte was Protestant, Hank’s father had been Catholic. For years Charlotte had honored his memory by attending the special All Saints’ Day services held at the cemetery where his remains had been buried.

“If Mother wants to go this year, I’ll take her.”

Charlotte gave her son a grateful look, and he, in turn, gave her a knowing smile.

“Better you than me,” Madeline quipped. “Those places give me the creeps. It’s still hard to believe that people used to go there at night and do those weird rituals and stuff.”

“They weren’t weird,” Charlotte argued. “Lighted candles were blessed by the priests, then placed on the tombs, and a mass was held. The priests performed what they call the ancient rites for the souls of the departed.”

Madeline shuddered. “I don’t care what they called it.” She shuddered again. “No way would you ever catch me there after dark.”

Sensing that a change of subject was needed, Daniel turned to Davy. “Davy and I are going trick-or-treating this year for Halloween, aren’t we, big guy?”



Since Charlotte had a couple of errands to run after she left Madeline’s house, it was late that afternoon before she finally returned home. Waiting for her was a fractious Sweety Boy and several messages on her answering machine.

“I know, I know, Boy,” she told the little parakeet as she opened the cage door. “You’re tired of being penned up in there, aren’t you, fellow?”

His answer was a squawk as he scurried through the open cage door and spent several minutes flying back and forth from one corner of the room to the other. When he finally settled on top of the cuckoo clock, Charlotte walked over to the desk and hit the play button of the answering machine.

The first message was from Bitsy, and Charlotte sighed.

“My goodness, Charlotte, where are you?” the old lady said reprovingly. “I didn’t hear about Drew Bergeron until this morning at church, what with Jenny’s being here and all. And by the way, Jenny and I had a lovely visit. But I’ll tell you all about it when you come on Tuesday.” Bitsy paused a moment, then said, “You are coming on Tuesday, aren’t you? Someone said that you were the one who found poor Drew dead and that when you found him, you fainted. What a dreadful experience. I do hope you’re okay.”

“Oh, great!” Charlotte exclaimed as Bitsy paused again. Already the rumors were circulating. Inaccurate rumors to boot.

“Well—anyway,” Bitsy continued. “Give me a call as soon as you get home.”

“Not likely,” Charlotte muttered as the message ended and the beep sounded.

The machine beeped again, and the next message began.

“Ms. LaRue. Vince Roussel here. Just calling to tell you that I’ll be in touch as to when your crew can finish up at the Devilier house. The police are dragging their feet, though, and I doubt you can get back in there before next weekend.”

The brief, but curt message reminded Charlotte of what Louis and Judith had told her about Vince Roussel and his son, and it left her with an uneasy feeling as well as a sense of urgency. The sooner she talked to Cheré, the better, she thought.

“Speak of the devil,” Charlotte murmured when the machine beeped and she recognized Cheré’s voice as her last caller.

“Just checking up on you, Charlotte, to see how you’re feeling today. Give me a call if you have time.”

Long after the message ended, Charlotte continued staring at the machine. Even though she had already decided to talk to Cheré about Todd Roussel, the thought of interfering in her employee’s personal life left a bad taste in her mouth.

From the beginning, she’d always made it a rule to mind her own business when it came to employees or clients. Unless an employee sought out her help or asked for advice, as Nadia had done, Charlotte never interfered in their personal lives. More times than not, and knowing human nature, uninvited meddling just caused hard feelings and resentment.

But if Louis and Judith were right…if the Roussels were mixed up with the mob…

Suddenly another thought hit her. What was it that Louis had said about some kind of business dealings between Vince Roussel and Drew Bergeron? Something about a real estate deal that had gone sour, if she remembered right.

Charlotte frowned, deep in thought. But there was something else that Louis had said about Vince Roussell too. Something—Then she remembered.

We’d found this lowlife’s body floating in the river…we figured he’d crossed Roussel, and Roussel killed him.

As Louis’ words played through her mind, Charlotte’s knees grew weak, and she stumbled to the sofa. It was obvious that Louis thought that Vince Roussel was capable of murder, and if that was true, then…

Charlotte shivered. Was it possible? Could Vince Roussel have murdered Drew Bergeron?


Chapter Thirteen
T he sky was overcast and dreary, and the air was once again heavy with humidity by Monday morning, none of which helped the depressed mood that threatened to overwhelm Charlotte as she locked her house and climbed into her van. Already, she felt as if she’d put in a full day’s work, and for the first time in a long time, she wished she could simply stay home and climb back into bed.

Within reason, Charlotte knew that her lethargy and depressed mood were simply the results of lack of sleep after a restless night of tossing and turning due to worry.

After much soul searching, she had finally placed a call to Cheré before she’d gone to bed the night before. But Cheré wasn’t home, and Charlotte had been forced to leave a message on the young woman’s answering machine. Charlotte’s message had been short and to the point. She’d simply told Cheré that she needed to see her right away. Then, Charlotte had suggested that Monday around five would be a good time if Cheré could drop by her house.

To make matters worse, along with worrying about Cheré, no matter how hard she’d tried, she kept thinking about Drew Bergeron. Recurring visions of how he’d looked, all slumped over and wearing nothing much more than that silly feathered mask, kept haunting her.

But underlying all of her other worries were the nagging thoughts about her health…the tiredness she’d felt lately, the forgetfulness, and the fainting spell. Each symptom could be excused or explained away individually, but all of them together…

“Stop it,” she muttered as she turned the van down the street where Marian lived. “Just stop it right now.”

Hank had set her up with an appointment to see a colleague of his on Tuesday afternoon, she reminded herself again. Until then, there was no use in even speculating about it, just as there was no reason to speculate about Drew Bergeron’s death. How or why he had been murdered was none of her concern. As for Cheré, she would have her talk with her that afternoon, but ultimately, the young woman would have to decide for herself what was best.

Firmly shoving the thoughts aside, Charlotte pulled in front of Marian’s house and parked. From the back of the van, she gathered her cleaning supplies along with two of the candles that she’d bought after leaving her sister’s house the day before.

All the talk about All Saints’ Day and candles had started her thinking. There were all types of scented candles now that were designed to alter moods. Maybe there was one she could get for Marian, one that might help calm her. Since she’d been on Magazine Street anyway, she’d decided to stop in at one of the specialty shops and check it out.

While in the shop, she had noticed a display that was devoted solely to aromatherapy. There were also brochures explaining the theory behind mood-altering scents. When she’d read how the scent of lavender had the power to soothe, she’d immediately purchased several lavender-scented candles.

“Should have used the candles myself,” she muttered as she locked the van.

Within mere seconds of ringing Marian’s doorbell, the front door swung open. One look at Marian, and Charlotte figured the poor woman needed more than a few candles to calm her down.

Once again she was still in her nightgown and robe, but unlike on Friday, today there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair was tangled and in dire need of a good shampooing. But it was the wild look in Marian’s eyes that disturbed Charlotte the most.

“Oh, Charlotte, come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Despite the distance between them, Charlotte wrinkled her nose when she caught a distinct whiff of alcohol. “Where are the boys?”

“Is it true?” Marian asked breathlessly, her eyes glittering with some emotion that Charlotte couldn’t readily identify. “Did you really find Drew Bergeron’s body at the Devilier house?”

Charlotte felt like groaning out loud as she stepped past Marian into the entrance hall.

“The story was splattered all over the front page of the Picayune yesterday,” Marian continued without waiting for a response. “But even before the story came out in the paper, I heard about it from Sam. He said he heard about it Saturday afternoon at the Rink when he stopped in for a cup of coffee.

“If you ask me,” Marian rushed on, “the S.O.B. got exactly what he deserved. But then, that’s exactly what I thought two years ago after his so-called plane crash.

“Well?” Marian grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “Is it true? Were you the one who found him? Please tell me you were and that he truly is dead this time.”

Charlotte was taken aback by Marian’s vehemence. But she was equally disturbed that her name was being connected with all of the gossip flying around—not to mention the clawlike grip Marian had on her arm.

Charlotte gently patted Marian’s hand. Then, under the pretense of setting down the supply carrier, she eased back a step to free herself from Marian’s grasp. Once she’d set her supplies down on the floor, she finally replied to Marian’s question. “I was in the house when Drew’s body was discovered. But I didn’t find him,” she avowed. “Rest assured, though, the body was definitely identified as Drew Bergeron.”

Since that was all she intended to say about the matter, Charlotte tried to change the subject.

“How’s Aaron feeling? What did the doctor have to say about him?”

“Aaron’s fine—nothing but a virus.” Marian dismissed the subject of her son’s illness with an impatient wave of her hand. “So if you didn’t find Drew, then who—”

“And B.J.’s okay too?” Charlotte interrupted, determined to change the subject. “He didn’t come down with the virus?”

“No!” Marian glared at her. “Aaron’s just fine,” she snapped. “B.J.’s just fine. I’m just fine. Now, who—”

At that moment the phone rang, interrupting further discussion, to Charlotte’s vast relief.

With a look of frustration, Marian spun away, marched to the extension, and jerked up the receiver.

Charlotte fully intended taking advantage of the phone call to make herself scarce. After all, she’d come there to work, not to gossip about Drew Bergeron. But a sudden gasp from Marian stopped her in her tracks.

“He’s been what?” Marian sputtered. As Marian listened to the reply, she paled and leaned heavily against the wall. “For fighting?” she whispered. “Fighting with who?” Several moments passed before Marian finally said, “Yes, of course I understand. I can come pick him up within the hour.”

When Marian finally hung up the receiver, she pushed away from the wall and turned to face Charlotte. “That was B.J.’s school,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “He’s been suspended for—for fighting, an—and I have to go get him.”

“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Charlotte rushed over to her and wrapped her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “I just can’t believe that B.J. was fighting. Surely there’s been a mistake of some kind.”

Marian gave a one-shouldered shrug and swiped at the tears that had spilled over onto her cheeks. “I don’t find anything hard to believe anymore. But th-thanks, Charlotte.” She pulled away from Charlotte’s embrace. “Thanks anyway. Guess I’d better go get dressed.”

As Charlotte watched Marian walk away, her head down, her steps dragging as if she were wading through ankle-deep mud, her heart went out to the younger woman and to B.J. as well.

From all indications, the boy was well on his way to trouble with a capital T, and Marian, poor thing, was well on her way to the breaking point.

With a sigh, Charlotte picked up her supply carrier. “Such a shame,” she murmured. “A crying shame.”

Almost half an hour passed before Marian came looking for Charlotte to let her know she was leaving. Though makeup had been artfully applied to cover the dark circles beneath Marian’s eyes, and she had twisted her hair up and secured it into a presentable French roll, nothing could disguise the worried, defeated look in her eyes.

“If the phone rings, just let the machine pick up the calls,” she told Charlotte. “I don’t have any appointments this morning, but if anyone does drop by, I should be back within the hour.”

Once Marian left, Charlotte strategically placed the two candles she’d brought with her and lit them—one in Marian’s office, and one in the kitchen-living area—in hopes that the soothing scent would have time to permeate those portions of the house by the time Marian returned. Then she focused on the task of cleaning the stove.

If possible, the kitchen was in worse shape than she had found it in on Friday. Not only was the cooktop of the stove splattered and caked with what appeared to be dried spaghetti sauce, but something had boiled over and congealed in one of the drip plates.

The stove was all-electric, so it was simple enough to disassemble it. Since all four of the drip plates needed a good cleaning anyway, Charlotte filled the sink with hot, sudsy water and let them soak while she scrubbed the cooktop.

After she’d thoroughly scrubbed the stovetop, she liberally applied an appliance wax, a thick, creamy liquid that when rubbed off and polished would leave the whole stove glowing and would help make subsequent cleanups easier.

Charlotte had just begun wiping away the wax when a loud crash broke the silence. “What on earth,” she cried as she jerked her head around to stare toward the dining room.

Dropping the towel she’d been using onto the cabinet, she hurried toward the dining room.

The dining room was at the front of the house, and a large double window overlooked the porch and the street. The first thing she spotted was a small pile of lumber on the porch, lumber that hadn’t been there when she’d arrived earlier. Beyond the porch was a battered white truck parked behind her van.

“Of course,” she murmured, immediately recognizing the truck. It was only Sam making all the racket. From the looks of the planks, he’d brought in the load of lumber to do some repairs, probably to the porch, she decided, eyeing two cans of paint sitting beside the lumber. The last few times she’d swept it, she’d noticed that there were some rotting boards that needed replacing.

But where was he? Craning her head, she scanned the front yard. When she finally spotted him, he was coming around the corner of the house, headed back toward his truck.

She watched for a moment more until she saw him heave a large toolbox from the bed of the truck. Her curiosity satisfied, she returned to the kitchen.

As she finished cleaning the stove and the rest of the kitchen, she was able to trace Sam’s progress through the sounds she heard coming from the porch…the creaking of boards being pried loose, the whine of an electric saw, followed finally by the banging of a hammer.



Charlotte had finally finished in the kitchen and living area and was dusting and waxing the tables in the hallway when she heard the rattle of the back door screen, then the groan of the back door being opened.

“Charlotte!” Marian called out. “It’s just us.”

When Charlotte walked into the kitchen, Marian was unloading small boxes of food from a sack onto the kitchen counter. Her mouth watered at the smell of fried chicken wafting from the boxes. But when she glanced to her left and saw B.J. perched on one of the bar stools at the island that separated the kitchen from the living area, all thoughts of food were forgotten.

He gave her a sullen look. The white knit shirt he wore was filthy and spotted with what she could only guess was dried blood. But it was his bruised and puffy face, along with the large bandage he was sporting just above his swollen right eye, that made her wince with sympathetic pain.

Marian glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, hey, Charlotte. I see that Sam started on the porch. Did anyone call or drop by?”

Charlotte dragged her gaze away from B.J. and shook her head. “No calls, no visitors,” she answered.

“That’s good,” Marian continued, “because things took a bit longer than I expected.” She motioned toward her son. “As you can see, B.J. had a nasty cut, so we had to make a side trip by the doctor’s office. Had to wait an eternity, but thank goodness he only needed a couple of stitches.” She pointed to the boxes on the cabinet. “Since it’s so close to lunchtime, I went ahead and picked up some Popeye’s chicken. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Charlotte told her. “I’m really tempted, but I’ve put on a couple of pounds, so I guess I’d better stick to the salad I brought.”

Then, placing her hands on her hips, Charlotte abruptly turned her attention back to B.J. “Well, young man,” she said. “I certainly hope the other guy looks at least as bad as you do.”

“Don’t encourage him, Charlotte,” Marian warned. “He’s in enough trouble as it is.”

“Believe me, encouraging him to fight is the last thing I’d do. Well?” she addressed B.J. again. “Does he? Does he look as bad as you do? Did he have to get stitches?”

When B.J. finally shook his head, Charlotte leveled a stern, narrow-eyed look at him. “Then what was the point?”

“He started it,” the teenager blurted out defensively.

“And you finished it by getting yourself beat up. Like I said before, what was the point?” She let him mull it over a moment. Then, with a sympathetic smile on her face, she moved closer. “You know sometimes it takes more courage just to walk away than to fight,” she said gently. “Fighting doesn’t always solve the problem, and knowing when to fight and when to walk away is one of the real differences between being a boy and being a man.”

Charlotte didn’t kid herself that B.J. would necessarily take her advice or even listen to her homegrown philosophy. She could only hope that emphasizing the differences between being a man and a boy would make an impression, especially since she suspected that trying to be the man of the family was one of B.J.’s problems. She’d raised a son and the signs were all there. She also knew that sometimes just planting a small seed of wisdom did a lot more good than an all-out lecture.

“Just think about it, okay?” Moving even closer, she asked, “So—are we still friends?” After a brief hesitation, when he finally nodded, Charlotte grinned and held out her hand, palm side up. “Well, then, give me five, my friend.”

Though he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and let out an indignant groan, he finally relented and slapped his hand against hers.

“All right, out of sight!” she drawled, which produced yet another indignant groan.

“Go wash up, B.J.,” Marian interrupted. “And change your shirt. It’s almost time to eat.”

Though B.J. cast a resentful look at his mother, he did as he was told.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Marian turned to Charlotte. “Any suggestions?” she asked.

Because of Charlotte’s experience with the Dubuisson family, the last thing she wanted or needed was to get sucked into yet another client’s personal life or problems. But this situation was different, she told herself. There was just no way she could ignore it, not when the welfare of two children was at stake. Marian was sick, possibly mentally ill from all accounts. Grown-ups and their problems were one thing, but when it came to children…

Charlotte didn’t even try to pretend that she didn’t know what Marian was talking about. “Have you thought about some professional counseling?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, but B.J. would never cooperate in a million years.”

Whether Marian had genuinely misunderstood or had deliberately misunderstood was hard to tell; Charlotte couldn’t be sure. Since she couldn’t be sure, she suddenly found herself reluctant to correct her employer’s assumption. Still…there was more than one way to get a point across.

“You’re probably right,” Charlotte agreed. “B.J. might not cooperate, not if he thought he was being singled out. But what if you used another approach? What if you made it a family affair and all of you went in for some counseling sessions?”

The expression on Marian’s face was contemplative, as if she were seriously considering Charlotte’s suggestion. She was about to answer when, much to Charlotte’s frustration and disappointment, the chimes of the front doorbell interrupted.

Marian, looking as frustrated as Charlotte felt, said, “I’d better see who that is.”

Since Charlotte needed to finish waxing one of the tables in the entrance hall anyway, she followed Marian.

When Marian opened the front door, Charlotte’s mouth dropped open at the sight of the couple standing on the other side of the threshold. What on earth were they doing here? she wondered as shock turned into an uneasy feeling of dread deep in the pit of her stomach.


Chapter Fourteen
C harlotte’s imagination went wild as one terrible scenario after another ran rampant through her mind. Surely the only reason for Louis and Judith showing up where she worked was because something horrible had happened to one of the family…Hank…Madeline…Daniel…

But after only the briefest nod of recognition, Judith turned to address Marian instead. Only then did Charlotte remember to breathe again.

“Mrs. Hebert, I’m Detective Monroe with the New Orleans Police Department.”

With a confused frown, Marian stared hard at Judith, then turned to stare at Charlotte. Even without Marian saying a word, Charlotte could tell from her confused frown what she was thinking. The resemblance between Charlotte and her niece was amazing. More times than not, to Madeline’s constant aggravation, anyone meeting Judith for the first time wrongly assumed that Charlotte and Judith were mother and daughter instead of aunt and niece.

“And this is Detective Thibodeaux,” Judith continued. We’re here—”

“Who’s at the door, Mom?” B.J. stepped out of his room near the end of the hall and shuffled past Charlotte to where his mother was standing. He’d changed from his soiled shirt and chinos into a pair of baggy jeans shorts and a T-shirt, Charlotte noted with satisfaction.

But Marian’s mouth tightened with irritation as she glared at her son. “Detectives from the police department, son.” She gave Judith an apologetic look. “Sorry. Now, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that—”

“What do the cops want with us?” B.J. blurted out as he glared first at Judith, then at Louis.

“B.J.! Mind your manners,” his mother admonished. “Now apologize to Detective Monroe for being so rude.”

“I wasn’t rude, and I didn’t do anything,” he all but snarled. “So why do I have to apologize, especially to a couple of stupid cops?”

“B.J.! Stop it!”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Marian told him firmly between gritted teeth. “Now go to your room, young man.”

When B.J. didn’t budge, Marian took a step toward him. “Go now!” she ordered, a warning tone of or else in her voice.

For a moment, Charlotte wasn’t sure who was going to win the battle of wills, but finally B.J. relented. With daggers of resentment shooting from his eyes, he whirled around, and muttering what Charlotte could only guess were expletives beneath his breath, he stomped off down the hallway.

He didn’t go to his room, though, Charlotte noticed. At the last second, he abruptly changed directions and headed into the kitchen instead. But Marian had already turned back to Judith and Louis, so she didn’t see that he had disobeyed her.

“Again, I’m so sorry,” she told Judith. “Come in, come in,” she said, motioning for the two detectives to come inside. With a sigh of defeat, she added, “And please excuse my son.” She pulled the door closed behind them. “My husband was killed back in January, and my son was here when the police came to inform us of his death. Unfortunately, he heard all of the grisly details, and ever since, he gets this way whenever he sees a policeman.” She shrugged. “I guess seeing or being around the police brings back all the painful memories for him.”

“I’m sure it does,” Judith murmured, her eyes narrowed in an expression that Charlotte recognized all too well, an expression that said Judith wasn’t buying the excuse.

Marian sighed again. “Now, how can I help you?”

“We’re investigating the murder of Drew Bergeron,” Louis said, stepping up beside Judith, “and it’s our understanding that your real estate company is handling the rentals of the Devilier apartments.”

While Marian talked, Louis kept shooting reproachful glances Charlotte’s way, glances that irritated her, but made her feel self-conscious and conspicuous as well. Since she had finished waxing the table anyway, and since her initial curiosity had been satisfied as to why Judith and Louis had shown up at Marian’s, she decided that now was as good a time as any to make herself scarce.

But Charlotte didn’t go far, just to the dining room. There, she was out of sight but still within hearing distance of the conversation taking place in the entrance hall.

As Louis began questioning Marian about potential clients who had shown an interest in the apartments, a movement just outside the front dining-room window caught Charlotte’s attention. Curious, she stepped closer, just in time to see B.J. drop down into one of the wicker chairs on the porch. The chair was located near enough to the front door that he could probably hear the conversation between the detectives and his mother even though it was closed.

At first she thought his actions were a bit strange, but then she figured that like her, he was simply curious as to what the detectives were doing there. Charlotte turned away and began the tasks of dusting and waxing the mahogany extension-leaf table.

It was while she was clearing off the centerpiece that another, more plausible excuse came to mind. Maybe, just maybe, B.J. was afraid that the police showing up had something to do with the fight he’d been in at school.

Out in the hall, Charlotte heard Judith say, “We’d like a list of anyone who might have access to keys to the house.”

“No need for a list,” she heard Marian respond. “Besides myself, only two others had keys. Jefferson—Jefferson Harper, the owner—has a master set, and Drew’s wife, Katherine, picked up a set on Friday afternoon. Katherine was thinking about buying one of the apartments to use for out-of-town guests, mostly during Mardi Gras,” she explained. “Since I couldn’t show her the apartments myself on Friday because of a doctor’s appointment, I told Katherine she could pick up the keys and look around on her own.”

“Mrs. Hebert, we understand that you and your husband were friends with the Bergerons. Were you close friends?”

The question came from Louis, and as Marian explained about the former relationship between the two couples, for the first time since Louis and Judith had arrived, it suddenly dawned on Charlotte that Judith’s new partner, Will Richeaux, should have been with Judith instead of Louis. So where was Will? she wondered. And why was Louis there instead?

Once again, Charlotte wondered about the obvious antagonism between Louis and Will that she’d witnessed on Saturday.

She’d have to remember to ask Judith later. Yeah, right, she thought uneasily. The way her memory was lately, she’d probably forget…again.

Since Charlotte had finished in the dining room but didn’t want to disturb the group in the hall, she resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing more she could do for the moment but wait until Judith and Louis had finished questioning Marian.

Maybe this would be a good time to take a lunch break. Usually she enjoyed eating her lunch out on the front porch in the fresh air. Then she remembered that Sam had been working out there, and the last time she’d looked, B.J. was still on the porch too.

Hoping that Sam had finished by now and that B.J. had grown tired of just sitting and eavesdropping, Charlotte wandered over to the window to check out the situation.

To her disappointment, B.J. was still slouched in the wicker chair. So where was Sam?

In the hall, Marian was talking, nonstop, about the business relationship between her husband and Drew Bergeron. That Marian was bitter was more than evident, and though she didn’t exactly come right out and say it, it was plain that she blamed Drew Bergeron for her husband’s state of mind before his accident.

Charlotte was so caught up in what Marian was saying that the sudden appearance of Sam within her view gave her a start. Even if she hadn’t noticed the can of paint he was carrying, it was obvious from the smears on his overalls that he’d been painting, and even more obvious that he’d finished the task as he began gathering the tools lying near the toolbox.

If he was finished, though, then she might be able to eat her salad on the porch after all…except that B.J. was still there.

Sam closed up the toolbox, but instead of loading it back into his truck, he approached B.J. After a few words to the teenager, he turned and walked to the steps. Within moments, B.J. pushed himself out of the chair and followed Sam. Then the two of them disappeared around the corner of the house together.



It was almost four when Charlotte turned onto her street that afternoon. So much for the soothing scent of the lavender candles, she thought. Her restless night combined with work and the tensions between Marian and B.J. had left her feeling drained, and definitely not soothed.

Maybe once she was home, she’d forgo her usual shower and take a long, relaxing hot bath instead. Maybe she’d even start on that new Joanne Fluke mystery she’d picked up the last time she was in the Garden District Bookshop.

Yep, Charlotte decided, a hot soak in the tub and a good book were always a surefire way to relax and forget…

And what about Cheré? You told her to meet you at five.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. Today of all days, the last thing she felt like doing was getting embroiled in yet another human being’s personal problems.

Charlotte glanced at the dashboard clock. She could always cancel the meeting. She was almost home, and it was just a little past four. Maybe there was still time if she hurried.

Charlotte pressed her foot a little harder against the accelerator and was halfway down her block when she spotted the tan Toyota parked in front of her house. Her heart sank. It was too late. Cheré was already there waiting for her.

But why was Cheré there so early? she wondered. She was almost certain that she’d left word that they were to meet at five, not four…well, almost certain.

Warning spasms of alarm erupted within Charlotte, quickly followed by the same uneasy feeling that had plagued her for weeks. Had she told Cheré four o’clock and just thought she’d said five? Was this yet another example of her forgetfulness lately?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered. “This is ridiculous!” One way or another, she’d find out for sure on Tuesday when she kept her doctor’s appointment, so why borrow trouble? Besides, she had other, more pressing things to worry about at the moment, mainly Cheré. Somehow, some way, she had to find the right words to tell Cheré about the Roussels.

As Charlotte turned into her driveway, Cheré waved to her from the porch swing, and Charlotte, forcing a smile she didn’t feel, waved back.

Once she’d parked the van, she locked it. Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath, she headed toward the porch.

“Hey, Charlotte.”

“Hey, yourself,” Charlotte answered as she climbed the steps. “Have you been waiting long?”

Cheré shook her head. “Just got here a few minutes ago,” she answered, pushing out of the swing. “I know you said five in your message, but I took a chance that you wouldn’t mind if I came by a little early.”

“Of course!” Charlotte suddenly gushed, so relieved that she felt like shouting. “You are early, aren’t you? And no, I don’t mind. No siree, I don’t mind at all.”

Cheré gave her a strange look. “Charlotte? Are you okay?”

Charlotte figured that the poor girl probably thought she was either drunk or high on something, but she really didn’t want to have to explain. She waved away Cheré’s concern.

“I’m fine,” she told her. “Just a bit—ah, overtired,” she quickly improvised. “Haven’t you ever been so tired that you either started acting silly or got the giggles?”

“I guess,” Cheré answered, not looking very convinced.

The moment Charlotte unlocked and opened the front door, Sweety Boy started his usual routine of squawking and preening to get her attention. But unlike most days, Charlotte ignored the little bird as she switched on the light, then set down her purse.

Cheré followed her inside and pulled the door closed behind her. “You haven’t had any more fainting spells, have you?”

Charlotte shook her head as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into the soft moccasins beside the front door. “No fainting spells. Just—” She shrugged. “Just tired.” She motioned toward the sofa. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink. Iced tea okay with you?”

“Sounds great,” Cheré responded as she sank down on the sofa.

Minutes later, Charlotte returned with two tall glasses of tea.

“So what’s up?” Cheré asked as she accepted the glass Charlotte handed her. “Why did you want to see me?”

Charlotte settled in the chair opposite the sofa. With a sigh, she plunged in. “I don’t know any way to say this but straight out. But please, just remember that I’m not being nosy. I just care about you and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Cheré frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t, hon. Not yet. But you will…I hope. You see, over the past few days I’ve been hearing some really disturbing things about your friend, Todd, and his father. Things that I think you need to know about.”

Cheré’s frown deepened. “What kind of things? And from who?”

Charlotte explained about the conversations she’d had with Louis and Judith, and she repeated the things she’d been told about the Roussels. To Cheré’s credit, she didn’t flinch or interrupt, or even offer a word of protest.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t interfere,” Charlotte assured her when she had finished. “But whether the allegations are true or not, my main concern is for you. I’m not blaming you, mind you, but if I had known all of this stuff before, I’m not so sure I would have accepted the Devilier job. And now, with everything that’s happened, I’m wishing I’d never heard of the Devilier house or Drew Bergeron.”

For long seconds, Cheré simply stared at Charlotte. Then, to Charlotte’s utter distress, the girl’s eyes filled with tears that overflowed down her cheeks.

“Oh, hon—” Charlotte moved immediately to the sofa. She set her glass down on the coffee table and put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Please don’t think I’m blaming you, because I’m not. I know this is upsetting, but I just couldn’t stand by and not say anything. I care too much about you.”

Cheré closed her eyes and shook her head. “Not upset—not with you.” She bowed her head. “Mostly upset with myself. I’ve known for some time that something was wrong, that Todd and his father weren’t…” Her voice trailed away. “It’s just that finally, I had someone of my own, someone—” She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain.”

She opened her eyes and turned to Charlotte. “I know you mean well, Charlotte, and it’s not that I don’t believe you, but it’s just been a long time since I had anyone who cared enough to—” She hesitated, then continued. “My mom died when I was twelve, and after she died, my dad—Well, he did the best he could, but with three other children besides me and his job, he’s just never had a lot of time. I’ve been kind of on my own, and—” Suddenly, she leaned over and hugged Charlotte. “Thanks,” she whispered against Charlotte’s shoulder. “Thanks for caring.”

Charlotte was beyond words as tears filled her own eyes and painful memories filled her head. Like Cheré, she knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. All within the space of a couple of years she’d lost the man she’d loved with all of her heart, then she’d lost her beloved parents. She knew all too well how it felt to be all alone without anyone to care about you. And she understood.

Charlotte swallowed hard and sniffed back the tears. “No thanks required,” she finally told Cheré when she could speak again. “Like I said before, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”



“What a Difference a Day Makes.” Charlotte hummed the tune of the old song as she turned down First Street on Tuesday morning. It had been one of her mother’s favorites, and for whatever reason, she’d awakened with the song playing in her head.

The lyrics of the song were right on, she thought. Just one day, along with a good night’s sleep, could make a huge difference in a person’s whole outlook.

Once Cheré had left, Charlotte had treated herself to a long, luxurious bath and a light supper of cheese, fruit, and crackers. Then she’d curled up in bed with the mystery novel she’d been wanting to read. She’d only gotten through the first two chapters when she realized that she either had to quit reading or she’d end up pulling an all-nighter, just to discover who the killer was. But the whole process had relaxed her just enough so that when she did turn out the lights, she fell asleep almost immediately. And she’d stayed asleep until her alarm sounded that morning.

Now if only she didn’t have to face Bitsy Duhe, she thought, easing off the accelerator as she approached Bitsy’s house. Like Bitsy, the raised-cottage-style Greek Revival was old; according to the old lady, the house had been built in the mid-eighteen-hundreds.

Charlotte sighed heavily. She hadn’t returned the old lady’s phone call, and knowing Bitsy as she did, she would have a million questions about the discovery of Drew Bergeron’s body. Any and every tidbit of information would be grist for Bitsy’s gossip mill.

“But I don’t want to talk about Drew Bergeron,” Charlotte muttered as she pulled alongside the curb and parked. And you sound like a petulant child, an inner voice taunted.

Maybe so, she argued back, but for once, she didn’t care. All she wanted was to forget that she’d ever seen Drew Bergeron, to wipe the memory of his half-naked body and his dead eyes from her mind forever.

Charlotte barely had time to park the van in front of Bitsy’s house when the elderly lady appeared at the doorway, then stepped out onto the gallery. Bitsy was a spry, birdlike woman, and as usual, she was wearing one of her many loose, midcalf floral dresses.

The minute Charlotte emerged from the van, Bitsy waved at her. “Do hurry up, Charlotte,” she called out in her squeaky voice. “I’ve fixed a fresh batch of muffins, but we need to eat them while they’re hot. And we can talk,” she added.

Oh, great. Just what I need—muffins full of calories and fat grams to go along with a conversation about a dead man. The minute the sarcastic thought entered Charlotte’s mind, guilt reared its ugly head. Be nice, now. She’s an old lady, and she really doesn’t mean any harm.

“Be there in just a sec,” Charlotte spoke up as she unloaded her supply carrier from the back of the van.

A few moments later, as Charlotte climbed the steps leading to the front gallery, she couldn’t help noticing that something about Bitsy was different. She looked younger and…happier was the only word she could think of.

Then suddenly it hit her. Of course! Bitsy had changed her hairstyle. For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the old lady had worn her hair pulled straight back into a tight little bun that she secured at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided in Charlotte that pulling her hair back so tightly helped smooth out the wrinkles around her eyes and was like getting an instant face-lift.

“Why, Miss Bitsy, you’ve had your hair cut,” she drawled, then smiled. “I love it. I absolutely love it. That shorter look is just beautiful.”

Preening at the compliment, Bitsy reached up and patted her hair. “That’s thanks to your girl, Valerie, down at the Lagniappe Beauty Salon,” she quipped.

“Oh, right—Valerie. Of course,” Charlotte murmured, her smile fading as she followed Bitsy inside. “Now that you mention it, I believe I do recall her telling me that you had switched over to—”

“Didn’t you get my message, Charlotte?”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Message?”

“Now that’s strange. I called you on Sunday and left a message.”

Charlotte neither denied nor confirmed that she’d gotten the message. “What was it you needed?” she asked innocently as she followed Bitsy into the house. Liar, liar, pants on fire, a voice whispered in her head, and shame washed through her. She’d always despised the act of lying. And she’d always figured that lying by omission and outright lying were the same thing.

“Why, I wanted to know all about Drew Bergeron. What else?”

Charlotte purposely ignored the statement. “When did you get your hair cut?” she asked, hoping to steer Bitsy onto something else, anything else but rehashing the events that had taken place on Saturday. “I just can’t get over how lovely it looks.”

“Friday morning, and Jenny—you remember, that’s the granddaughter who lives in New York, the one who visited this weekend—well, she really liked it a lot too. Said it made me look twenty years younger.” The old lady suddenly giggled. “She also said I was a real hip granny now.”

Charlotte smiled again as she set down her supply carrier in the kitchen. “Well, it does look nice on you,” she acknowledged. “Valerie is a very talented stylist.”

“And so smart,” Bitsy added, as she bustled over to the cabinet. “How many muffins can you eat?”

“Ah, Miss Bitsy, I—”

“Now I won’t take no for an answer. They’re blueberry. It’s a new recipe I got out of a book I’m reading—”

Charlotte cleared her throat, interrupting. “The title of that book doesn’t happen to be Blueberry Muffin Murder by Joanne Fluke, does it?”

“My goodness, Charlotte, how did you know?”

Charlotte smiled. “I’m reading it too.”

Bitsy beamed. “Well, then, you simply must try one or two. I baked them in my new toaster oven and I’m dying to get your opinion—on the oven, that is. According to the advertisement it’s supposed to bake just as good as a regular oven but use half the electricity—not that I always believe everything I read.”

Typically Bitsy, and to Charlotte’s relief, the old lady momentarily forgot about Drew Bergeron and took off on a tangent about how cautious elderly people needed to be about advertisements these days. To be polite, Charlotte tried to pretend interest, but her eyes strayed to the newest addition in a long line of kitchen gadgets that Bitsy had accumulated over the years.

Bitsy’s entire kitchen was a maid’s nightmare, not because it was especially dirty or messy, since the elderly lady adhered to the old philosophy of a place for everything and everything in its place, but because it contained every modern kitchen gadget imaginable, all of which collected dust and grease.

As best Charlotte could recall, at last count, Bitsy already owned two toaster ovens, both of which sat on a special shelf that she’d had built to display all of the appliances that wouldn’t fit on the over-crowded countertops.

When Bitsy finally finished her tirade about misleading advertisements, she paused long enough to thrust a plate containing two muffins at Charlotte. “Here. Now try these and tell me what you think. Then, I want to hear all about Drew Bergeron.”

Charlotte’s heart sank as she accepted the plate and seated herself at the kitchen table. In hopes of delaying what was beginning to look like the inevitable, she took a huge bite out of one of the pastries. Maybe if she kept her mouth full, then she wouldn’t have to talk, at least not for a little while longer.

“I was going to bake them for Jenny, and get her opinion,” Bitsy continued, “but never got the chance.” She seated herself across from Charlotte. “Jenny was out so late Saturday night, and it was almost noon before she woke up. By then it was lunchtime.”

Charlotte swallowed. “Speaking of Jenny, did you enjoy her visit?” Maybe if she kept Bitsy talking about her granddaughter, she’d forget about Drew Bergeron. Yeah, right. Fat chance.

“Oh, my, yes—yes, I did.” Bitsy gushed. “I just wish she could have stayed longer though. But she’s promised to come back for Thanksgiving this year and spend more time. Now—” She waved at Charlotte’s plate. “Eat up.”

Left with little choice and under Bitsy’s watchful eye, Charlotte dutifully ate every crumb of the two muffins.

“Well? What do you think,” the old lady asked her when she’d finished.

“Delicious,” Charlotte replied in all honesty. “I think your new oven works just fine.”

Bitsy beamed. “Me too, but I wanted another opinion. Now, what’s all this I’ve been hearing? Someone said that you were the one who found Drew’s body.”

“Well, I—”

At that moment the phone rang. Though a shadow of annoyance crossed Bitsy’s face at the intrusion, Charlotte felt like grinning from ear to ear. There was no way Bitsy would ignore a phone call. When the phone rang a second time, Bitsy glared at the extension hanging on the wall above the countertop, then gave a disgusted grunt. “Guess I’d better get that,” she said as she pushed away from the table. “I’ll take the call on the portable in the hallway,” she told Charlotte as she walked past the extension. “If it’s who I suspect it is, it might take a while. Help yourself to some more muffins,” she called out over her shoulder, “and we’ll talk later.” Then she disappeared through the doorway.

Charlotte was able to get the kitchen clean and had started dusting in the parlour when Bitsy wandered in with the portable phone still pressed to her ear.

“Any time, Norma,” Charlotte heard her say. “Talk to you later, then. Bye now.” The old lady clicked the phone off. “My goodness, how that woman can talk,” she said to Charlotte. “And what a gossip!”

Given Bitsy’s penchant for gossip, Charlotte almost choked to keep from laughing, and she quickly turned away to hide her reaction.

“Now! About Drew—Oh, no!” Bitsy suddenly gasped. “Look at this.”

When Charlotte turned to see why Bitsy sounded so distressed, the old lady had set the phone down and had picked up a large book off the coffee table.

She held the book out to show Charlotte. “Jenny went off and forgot her yearbook,” she explained. “She’d brought it with her so she could brush up on everyone’s names for the reunion.”

“You can always mail it to her,” Charlotte suggested.

“Hmm, I suppose so.” With a shrug, Bitsy placed the book back onto the table. “It sure came in handy, though. I knew a lot of Jenny’s friends back then, and she and I went through it before she left Sunday evening, so she could bring me up to date on what’s happened to the ones who showed up.

“Drew Bergeron was in that class, you know,” Bitsy continued. “Here, I’ll show you.” She leaned over and thumbed through the pages. “Jenny said that everyone at the reunion was in shock when they heard what happened, especially since he was already supposed to be dead. She said there were all kinds of stories going around about him.” She thumped one of the pages. “Look at this, Charlotte.”

Curiosity was a vice and possibly a sin, Charlotte decided. Unable to resist the temptation to get a glimpse of a younger Drew Bergeron, she moved closer to the table. From the looks of the photo, it had been taken at a party, probably a fraternity party, she figured, since the two men and the woman in the picture were holding out beer cans, as if toasting some occasion.

“That’s him,” Bitsy said, pointing to the man on the left side of the picture. “And that’s Bill and Marian Hebert with him. Of course, they weren’t married then,” she added.

Charlotte leaned closer to get a better look. Though she’d never met Bill Hebert, she’d seen pictures of him. But if Bitsy hadn’t told her who the couple was, she would never have recognized either of them. “I knew they had all been friends,” she murmured, “but I guess I didn’t realize just how long they had been friends.”

“Oh, my, yes—all three of them grew up together. In fact, Jenny said that it had always been a toss-up as to which of the two men Marian would end up with.”

Unbidden, Marian Hebert’s bitter words about Drew suddenly popped into Charlotte’s head. The S.O.B. got exactly what he deserved. How sad, she thought. A lifetime friendship ruined, and all because of business dealings. She’d always heard that you should never do business with friends or relatives, and if nothing else, the Bergerons and the Heberts were perfect examples as to why the old adage was true.

“Jenny called them the wild bunch,” Bitsy continued, “but then, what can you expect? All of them were spoiled rotten. But that’s what happens when parents give a child anything and everything that money can buy.” Bitsy shook her head. “Lord knows, they were bad enough in high school, but by the time they got to Tulane, they were holy terrors.” She abruptly paused. Then her expression grew thoughtful. “Hmm…Of course, that was the year there was all that hoopla about that chemistry professor too, so nobody paid much attention to their antics or pranks—and believe me, they pulled some. But here, let me show you.”

Bitsy flipped over several pages and pointed out a large picture of a man dressed in what appeared to be a lab coat. “That’s him. That’s the infamous Professor Arthur Samuel.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Charlotte, but the details as to why it seemed familiar escaped her.

“And what a delicious scandal that was,” Bitsy said with relish. “Why I remember it like it happened yesterday. Jenny was in his chemistry class that semester. Of course it was all in the papers too—remember, that was when we still had the States Item as well as the Picayune.” She waved a dismissing hand. “Anyway, the professor was arrested for a hit-and-run accident.”

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured. “Now I remember. Didn’t the hit-and-run happen over on St. Charles Avenue, not far from Tulane?”

Bitsy nodded. “Yep, it sure did. He ran a red light and hit some poor man who was crossing the avenue. Everyone said he was drunk as a skunk when he did it, but of course the professor denied it all. Claimed he was home that night. But the jury didn’t buy it, especially when it came out that the professor was an alcoholic. Convicted him of vehicular homicide and sentenced him to ten years.” Bitsy snickered. “Evidently his wife didn’t buy it either, since she divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Kansas where she was from.”

Bitsy closed the yearbook. “Funny thing, though,” she said, patting the top of the book. “No one at the reunion seemed to know what happened to him after he got out of prison. You’d think someone would know.” Bitsy suddenly made a face. “But that’s old news. And Drew Bergeron isn’t. Now, Charlotte, you simply must tell me what happened. Someone said that when you found him, he was naked as a jaybird. Well? Was he?”

There was no way around it, Charlotte decided. Like a dog gnawing on a bone, Bitsy wasn’t going to give up until she told her what she wanted to hear. Maybe if she gave the old lady just a brief rundown of the facts, she would stop obsessing about it. And just maybe she could stop some of the false rumors flying around. Working for the Dubuissons had taught her that having her name and maid service associated in any way, shape, or form with a murder simply wasn’t good for business…or her own peace of mind.

“He was not naked,” Charlotte finally replied a bit more sharply than she’d intended. “And I wasn’t the one who found him,” she added, toning down her agitation.



Since Charlotte’s doctor’s appointment was scheduled for two-thirty, she had just enough time to run a few errands after she left Bitsy’s house at noon.

Later, as she sat in the crowded waiting room of the doctor’s office, she idly thumbed through a magazine in an attempt to distract herself. Anything, any distraction at all so she could stop thinking about the reason she was there to begin with.

But none of the articles held her attention for long. Feeling definitely fidgety, she glanced at her watch. It seemed as if she’d been sitting and waiting for an eternity. Her lips thinned with irritation when she saw the time. Almost an hour had passed since she’d arrived.

Ten more minutes, she decided. She’d wait ten more minutes, then, appointment or not, she was out of there.

“Charlotte LaRue? Ms. Charlotte LaRue?”

When Charlotte glanced up and saw the nurse waiting by the door that led back to the examination rooms, a cold knot formed in her stomach. She could still leave, she thought. She could just pretend that she didn’t hear her name being called, get up, and walk out the door. Couldn’t she?



Over two hours later, Charlotte was wishing she had left. Since she had no fever, her blood pressure was normal, and from the basic physical, she appeared to be just fine, the doctor had insisted that she go ahead and get her flu shot while she was there.

“You can get dressed now, Ms. LaRue.”

Charlotte simply smiled at the nurse as she climbed off the examination table. Already her arm was feeling achy from the shot.

The nurse capped the needle, then dropped it into a small plastic container. “We should have all of your test results in by next Thursday, so be sure and make an appointment on your way out.”

Once the nurse left the room, Charlotte’s smile faded. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she muttered as she made her way back to the tiny cubicle where she’d left her clothes. She’d been prodded, poked with needles, and submitted to other indignities that she’d just as soon forget about before they had finished with her. But the worst part of the whole ordeal was yet to come.

“Another whole week,” she grumbled as she pulled off the hospital gown and dressed. Now, she had to wait a whole week before she could find out the results of all the tests. But she should have known better than to expect an answer right away. Hurry up and wait seemed to be the norm for everything nowadays.


Chapter Fifteen
F or a change, Marian was already dressed when Charlotte arrived on Wednesday morning. Only minutes after she stepped inside the Hebert house, she found out the reason why.

“As soon as I eat a bite, I’ll be leaving for a while,” Marian told her when they entered the kitchen. “I’m meeting with Jefferson Harper to decide what kind of damage control is needed for the Devilier house because of Drew’s murder.” Her expression turned grim as she walked to the pantry and retrieved a box of cereal. “Not too many people want to rent a place where a murder’s been committed.”

Charlotte began unloading the dishwasher. “I suppose not,” she murmured.

Marian shrugged, then poured the cereal in a bowl and added milk. “Anyway, I need to ask a favor.” She carried the bowl of cereal over to the table and seated herself. “Ordinarily, I would just let the machine catch any phone calls,” she explained. “Or I would forward them to my cell phone. But silly me, I forgot that the battery needed recharging. And with B.J. being back in school and all, just in case there’s a problem, I was wondering if you’d mind too much answering any calls that come in. I’ll leave a number where I can be reached,” she added.

“No problem,” Charlotte told her. “And speaking of B.J.—” She removed the basket of silverware from the dishwasher and placed it on the countertop. “Did you ever find out what the fight was about?”

Marian finished chewing the bite of cereal she had taken, swallowed hard, and blinked several times. “Unfortunately, yes—yes, I did. You know how worried I’ve been about him. He just hasn’t been the same since his father died. And now, with all this stuff going around about Drew’s murder, all the gossip has started up all over again about Bill’s death as well.”

Charlotte frowned. “But what does all of that have to do with B.J. fighting?”

“B.J. claims he was defending his father’s honor. One of the boys he fought with taunted him about Bill. Said that he’d committed suicide and made it look like an accident because of the insurance money.” She dropped her head, and covered her face with her hands. “Kids can be so—so mean,” she whispered, tears in her voice.

For several moments, Charlotte was speechless. When she found her voice, she was furious on B.J.’s behalf. “I wouldn’t call that just mean. I’d say that was downright cruel. But why would the boy have said such a thing to begin with? Drew’s murder had nothing to do with your husband’s accident.”

Marian dropped her hands and stared out the window. “Gossip,” she replied. “The boy was probably repeating something he’d heard his parents say.” She turned her head and faced Charlotte. “Everybody knew there were hard feelings between Bill and Drew after Drew fired him. And Bill made no secret of the fact that he blamed Drew when we began losing clients. He made sure everyone knew about Drew’s threats.” She grimaced. “For all the good that did.”

“What kind of threats?” The second Charlotte uttered the words, she wished she hadn’t. “Oh, Marian, I’m so sorry. It’s really none of my business.”

“Don’t apologize, Charlotte. I’m the one who should apologize for burdening you with my problems to begin with. And like I said, it was no deep, dark secret anyway. But to answer your question, it all started when Maurice Sinclair died. Maurice left the business to Katherine, so Drew took over running things. Problem was, Drew was too busy playing big shot and didn’t take care of the business or their clients. Bill saw what was happening and began to get worried since our livelihood was in jeopardy too.

“At first he tried talking to Drew, friend to friend—ha! Some friend he turned out to be,” she added with a sneer. “Drew ignored him, of course, and things went from bad to worse. As a last-ditch effort, Bill more or less told Drew to either get his priorities straight or he was going straight to Katherine. Giving Drew warning was a mistake, though. A week after they’d had their little confrontation, Drew up and fired Bill. But just firing him wasn’t enough for the bastard. To add salt to the wound, he threatened him too. Threatened to ruin him in the real estate business if Bill ever went to Katherine.”

Marian paused. Then she sighed. “Of course Bill went anyway, and of course Drew made good his threats. From that point on, our business went from bad to worse.

“At first I didn’t want to believe what everyone was saying. But those last few weeks before—before Bill died, he was so worried and upset that—” Marian shook her head. “I keep thinking that maybe if I’d been stronger, more supportive, he—he might still be alive—” Her voice broke and her shoulders quivered with silent sobs.

“Oh, hon.” Charlotte rushed over to Marian, and placing her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder, she knelt beside her chair. Some of what Marian was saying made sense, but some of it didn’t, and no wonder. The woman was clearly distraught, so it was understandable that she might be confused. “You can’t blame yourself,” Charlotte told her.

“Oh, can’t I?” she cried.

“It was an accident,” Charlotte insisted. “The police said it was, so how can you blame yourself for an accident?”

Marian slowly shook her head. “I wish I could believe that—wish it with all of my heart. Then maybe I could sleep at night. Lord knows, I want to believe it. But I don’t,” she added in a whisper. “In spite of what the police said, I don’t think Bill’s death was just an accident, and I still have nightmares. It haunts me, and now it’s haunting my son too.”



The memory of Marian’s last words lingered long after she had left for her appointment. Even after Charlotte had finished up and was on her way home that afternoon, the desperation and anguish in Marian’s voice kept echoing in her mind. By the time she turned down her street, she was sick at heart from thinking about all of it.

Once inside her house, though, there were other things to occupy her thoughts. Sweety Boy provided some relief as he burst into chirps and whistles the minute she walked through the door.

“Hey, Boy, did you miss me?” She set down her purse and slipped off her shoes. “Come on, Sweety. Say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte. Missed you.’” After pulling on her moccasins, she walked over to the little bird’s cage.

“If you talk for me, I’ll let you out for a while.” A loud squawk was the only answer she got, but she unlatched the cage door anyway. The second she opened the door, the little parakeet was out like a flash.

Charlotte watched him flutter from one perch to another in the living room for a few minutes; then she walked over to the desk to check her answering machine. The blinking light indicated that she had three messages, and Charlotte tapped the play button.

After a long beep, the first message began. “Hi, Mother. Just checking in with you to see how you’re feeling after your tests yesterday. Give me a call. Love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmured, as the machine beeped again.

“Charlotte, it’s Madeline. I meant to call yesterday but got busy. Anyway, how was your doctor’s appointment? Find out anything yet? Call me.”

Charlotte sighed and shook her head as the machine beeped again.

“Hey, Aunt Charley. It’s Judith. Just checking up on you. How’d the doctor’s appointment go? Any news yet? Call me.”

Charlotte glared at the machine. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered. “You’d think I was dying or something.”



Normally, Charlotte tried to keep Thursdays free from commitments so she could catch up on paperwork or do whatever was needed to keep her maid service running smoothly as well as take care of personal errands.

After her early-morning walk, she put on a load of clothes to wash while she hurried through her own housekeeping chores. Then she settled at the desk.

It took her until almost noon to enter expense receipts into the ledger she kept for tax purposes. When she’d finally entered the last of the receipts, she shoved away from the desk with a sigh and walked to the front window.

Feeling a bit stiff from sitting too long, she rolled her head from side to side, then flexed the fingers on her writing hand. As she stared out of the window, she thought again about the offer her son had made. Maybe it was time to give in. For months he’d been nagging her to get a computer, but she’d resisted. He’d argued that if she was going to continue being stubborn about retiring, the least she could do was to let him get her a computer so that she could run her service more efficiently.

Not only had he offered to buy a computer, but he’d assured her that he would have someone set it up for her and even pay for lessons. Of course, as usual, he’d followed up the offer with yet another pitch aimed at getting her to retire.

Charlotte suddenly frowned when she realized what she’d been staring at out the window. For the second day straight, Louis’ blue Ford was still parked in the driveway. Funny. She hadn’t seen or talked to him since their confrontation Sunday morning. Come to think of it, even though his car was parked in the driveway, she hadn’t heard the first peep coming from his half of the double.

Just about the time she’d decided that maybe she’d better check up on him, Judith’s tan Toyota pulled up alongside the curb. When Judith emerged from her car, Charlotte saw that her niece was carrying a plastic sack.

Wondering what could be in the sack, she walked to the front door in anticipation of Judith’s knock. When several minutes passed and nothing happened, Charlotte opened the door and stuck her head out just in time to see Judith disappear through the front door of Louis’ half of the double.

“Oh, well,” she murmured, unable to stem her disappointment as she closed the door. “Time for lunch.”



One of the luxuries Charlotte allowed herself on Thursdays, if time allowed, was an afternoon nap after lunch. She’d just stretched out on the sofa with a book when her doorbell rang.

Probably Judith, she thought as she hurried to the door. Sure enough, when she opened it, her niece was standing on the other side of the threshold.

“Hey there, Auntie. Got a cup of coffee?”

“Hey there, yourself.” Charlotte gave Judith a quick hug. But when she pulled away, she frowned. “You look tired, hon.”

“I am,” Judith told her as she followed Charlotte back to the kitchen. “Not only is the Bergeron case going nowhere fast, but half the department is out with the flu, and we’ve had three other homicides since Saturday. No rest for the weary, that’s for sure.”

Charlotte motioned toward the kitchen table. “How about a bite to eat?”

“Just coffee, Aunt Charley. Lou’s down with the flu too, so I took him lunch and ate with him.”

“Well, that explains it,” Charlotte murmured as she prepared the coffeepot. “I knew I’d seen his car parked in the driveway, but I hadn’t actually seen or talked to him since Sunday morning.”

“Yeah, he started with the chills and fever Sunday night—which reminds me. Did you get your flu shot yet?”

Charlotte switched on the coffeepot and nodded. “Yesterday, while I was at the torture chamber, otherwise known as the doctor’s office.”

A slight smile pulled at Judith’s cheeks. “That bad, huh?” she drawled. “And that’s another thing. You never did return my call last night. So—other than being tortured—how was your appointment?”

While the coffee dripped, Charlotte gave Judith a rundown of the various tests that had been done. “The very worst thing of all, though,” she said when she’d finished, “is that I have to wait a whole week to find out the results.”

“Yeah, waiting is always the hard part with everything. I’m still waiting on some lab results that I should have had two days ago.”

Charlotte frowned. “About the Bergeron murder?”

Judith nodded. “That and others.”

“Any suspects yet?”

Judith laughed, but the sound was anything but humorous. “Oh, there are plenty of suspects. Mr. Bergeron was not a popular fellow, it seems. It’s the narrowing down of the suspects that’s the problem.”

Judith shifted in her chair, then began drumming her fingers against the tabletop. She’s nervous, thought Charlotte, recognizing all too well the signs. Ever since Judith was a little girl, any time she was worried, or in an uncomfortable or a tense situation, she’d resorted to what Charlotte thought of as the nervous fidgets. The girl simply couldn’t keep still.

“Which brings me to one of the reasons for my visit,” Judith told her. Tilting her head, she pinned Charlotte with a look that Charlotte recognized all too well, and she grimaced, already suspicious of what was coming.

“Okay, hon, just spit it out and be done with it.”

“Well, Auntie,” she drawled. “Unfortunately, once again it seems that you know several of the suspects.”

Charlotte’s stomach turned queasy.

“I’m hoping that you can help me out,” Judith added.

The very last thing Charlotte wanted was to be pulled into yet another murder investigation that involved clients. Once had been enough, thank you very much. And just the thought of it happening again made her feel ill.

“You’ve already questioned me and my employees. I don’t know of anything else I can add.”

“That was before we narrowed down the suspects, Auntie. You know I hate having to do this to you,” Judith continued, “but to be honest, right now I can use all of the help I can get. I need to—”

“The coffee’s ready,” Charlotte interrupted, then busied herself with pouring it into the mugs she’d retrieved from the cabinet.

“Now, Aunt Charley, I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I know all about your confidentiality policy concerning your clients, but this is a murder investigation. Whether you want to or not, I have to do this.”

Gossiping or talking about her clients was prohibited. It had been a long-standing policy that Charlotte instilled in her employees the moment they were hired, one that she believed in so adamantly that any breach was grounds for immediate dismissal.

Charlotte brought the mugs of coffee over to the table and set one down in front of Judith. “I realize it’s your job, hon, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She seated herself across from her niece. Wrapping her hands around her mug and taking a deep breath, she asked, “So which of my clients are we talking about this time?”