Barbara Colley - Charlotte LaRue 02 - Death Tidies Up p.05

Chapter Twenty-one
T he minute Charlotte got home, she grabbed the telephone directory to see if Sam Roberts was listed. She’d thought about simply calling Marian to get his phone number, but she really didn’t want to do that unless she had no choice. Until she resolved her dilemma about B.J., the less contact she had with his mother, the better.

But finding Sam Roberts wasn’t going to be that easy, she soon learned. There were six S. Roberts, but no Sam Roberts listed. Charlotte called all six of the numbers, but none turned out to be the Sam Roberts she was looking for.

Next she tried Directory Assistance, but again, she hit a brick wall when she was politely told that his number was unlisted.

“Now what?” she murmured, tapping out an impatient staccato rhythm with her fingers against the desktop and wondering why on earth someone in his line of business would have an unlisted number, of all things.

Suddenly, her fingers stilled. There was no way around it, she finally decided. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to call Marian.

Charlotte reached for the Rolodex. Marian would know his phone number and would probably know where he lived as well. Once she’d found Marian’s number, she hesitated, her fingers hovering above the dial pad on the phone.

What excuse could she use for wanting to know Sam’s phone number and address? She finally decided that she could always claim that she had another client who needed some repairs done, or better yet, she could say that she needed something repaired herself.

Marian answered Charlotte’s call on the third ring. Charlotte crossed her fingers for luck. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Marian, but I need Sam Roberts’ address. You see, the other day I asked him about repairing one of my kitchen chairs, and silly me—I forgot to get his address. I’d call him, but he’s not listed in the phone directory, so I was wondering if you happen to know where he lives.”

The excuse had holes in it as big as the Grand Canyon, and Charlotte held her breath.

Evidently, Marian didn’t notice. When she began rattling off the phone number and the address, Charlotte grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled down the information.

Though Charlotte had never believed in putting off till tomorrow what she could do today, after she’d hung up the phone she sat for several moments, staring into space. Once again she weighed the pros and cons of the decision she’d made to talk to Sam.

“Just do it,” she finally muttered. Before she could change her mind, she shoved away from the desk, grabbed her purse, and marched out of the house.

The address Marian had given Charlotte was actually only a few blocks away. The house itself was also very similar in architecture to her own home and even included a small front porch and swing. The only difference was that Sam’s house was in much better repair than her house; unlike hers, his had what looked to be a fresh coat of paint.

When Charlotte approached the address, she noted that there were no vehicles in either driveway, but she reasoned that his truck could be parked around back, since the driveways on either side went all the way to the back of the house.

Did he own the double? she wondered. Or, like Louis, was he just renting one side of it?

Charlotte parked the van near the curb in front, got out, then walked slowly to the steps. Her misgivings about being there in the first place grew with each step she took as she climbed the stairs up to the porch. Reminding herself that she was doing this for B.J. was the only thing that kept her from running back to the van and driving away.

At the front door, she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed the doorbell and waited. When several moments passed and nothing happened, she rang the doorbell again.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing, she thought sarcastically as she waited. Not only had she rushed out without going to the bathroom, a chore she always took care of before leaving the house, but she hadn’t considered phoning ahead. If she’d phoned first, she could have saved herself the trouble and discomfort.

But she hadn’t phoned ahead, and as she saw it, she now had two choices: She could hang around and wait until Sam showed up, or she could leave and come back again later.

Since there was no way of telling when he might show up and she really needed a rest room anyway, Charlotte decided to leave. She also decided that before she went running off again, she’d call first next time. Turning away from the door, she crossed the porch and started back down the stairs.

While part of her was relieved that no one was home, another part of her felt the disappointment and frustration clear to her toes. Then, at the bottom of the steps, something in the grass caught her eye and Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. Just to the left side of the bottom step was an object that looked suspiciously like a ground-out cigar butt.

Paranoid, she thought, with a shake of her head. She was becoming paranoid over cigar butts, for Pete’s sake. Besides, as B.J. had so cleverly pointed out, just because it was the same brand didn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself; it could belong to anyone.

But even as she muttered, “You’re being ridiculous,” she grabbed hold of the stair rail for support and nudged the butt with the toe of her shoe. Though it was smashed flat, it did have the same odd shape as the ones beneath B.J.’s bed and the one at the Devilier house.

Charlotte was still staring at the cigar butt when the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway finally penetrated her concentration.

She glanced up and her heart began to thud when she saw Sam Roberts climb out of his battered truck. The man really needed a haircut, she thought. And he needed to trim that scraggly beard. He might not look half bad if he cleaned up a bit…

“Well, this is sure a surprise,” he called out. “What do I owe this honor to—No, wait, let me guess. You’ve finally decided to give in and let me have my wicked way with you.”

Charlotte swallowed hard and summoned up a polite little smile. “Not hardly,” she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m here because I need to talk to you.”

“Talking’s a good beginning.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “A little talk. A little—”

“About B.J.” she hastened to add. “I’m here to talk to you about B.J.,” she with emphasis.

Sam’s grin faded instantly, and for a moment, an odd expression flitted across his face. Was it hostility? Wariness? Charlotte couldn’t be sure, but almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her to wonder if once again her imagination was playing tricks on her.

“What’s he done this time?” Sam asked her, his face now serious with worry.

“Nothing, I hope,” she replied. “But that’s what we need to discuss.”

The line of his mouth tightened a fraction, but he motioned toward the front door. “Well, come on in and let’s talk then.”

Once again, misgivings about being there assailed her. Charlotte had been on her own for more years than she cared to count, and during that time, she’d learned to be cautious. There were just some things that a single woman didn’t do, and one of them was getting caught all alone in a strange house with a man she barely knew and didn’t really like in the first place.

She’d come too far to back down now, but for a moment she debated if it would be considered rude to suggest that they sit out on the porch instead. Then she thought of B.J. and the enormity of the problems facing the teenager. She finally decided that too much was at stake to quibble over where she talked to Sam. The boy’s whole future could depend on this talk.

Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and once again climbed the steps to the porch.

The inside of Sam’s home wasn’t what she’d expected at all. For one thing, it had been remodeled to include a small hallway. And like Louis’ place, it looked nothing like she had imagined a bachelor’s house would look like. No dirty clothes lying around. No unwashed dishes or scattered magazines or newspapers. It was tidy and extremely sparse. But unlike Louis’ place, there was nothing at all in the way of personal effects. No paintings, no knickknacks or books, nothing to give her even a hint as to what type of man he might be.

He motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? A Coke? Coffee? Or maybe something a little stronger?”

“No—no, thanks. Nothing for me.” She stepped over to the sofa. “But you go ahead and get whatever you’d like.”

He nodded, but as he turned and headed toward what she assumed was the kitchen, she called him back. “There is one thing, though,” she said. “I do need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.”

In a matter-of-fact way that she truly appreciated, he pointed to another doorway. “Down the hall. Second door on your left.”

Charlotte figured that the first door probably led to a bedroom, and wondering if it too was as sparse and devoid of personal effects as the living room, she slowed her steps as she approached it. Should she or shouldn’t she? Surely just a quick peek couldn’t hurt, could it?

From the doorway, Charlotte frowned as she gazed around the small room. Compared to the bedroom, the living room was cluttered, she thought, eying the even more barren, depressive room.

Like the living room, the bedroom was neat and tidy, but that was the only positive thing she could say about it.

The double-sized bed was covered with a plain cotton bedspread that had probably once been white, but now, due to either age or neglect, it had a yellowish cast to it. A little bleach and a good washing would do wonders for it, make it look almost new. Too bad she couldn’t suggest it.

Next to the bed was a cheap, rickety-looking table, just large enough to hold an equally cheap-looking lamp and an alarm clock. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small dresser, located against the wall at the foot of the bed. Except for one lone framed photograph, the dresser top was completely bare.

From where she was standing and because of the angle of the frame, she couldn’t see the photo. Again, she had to ask herself, should she or shouldn’t she?

Knowledge is power if you know it about the right person. And right now, she needed to know all she could about Sam.

Charlotte could faintly hear the sound of an ice tray being emptied, and with one ear tuned to the noises in the kitchen, she eased farther inside the bedroom. As she approached the dresser, out of the corner of her eye, she saw several packing boxes. Because the boxes were stacked on the floor along the wall that the bedroom shared with the hallway, they hadn’t been visible before. But it was the photo on the dresser, not the boxes, that interested her at the moment.

The photo was a family portrait of a man, a woman, and two little boys. From the style of the clothes they were wearing, she figured the photo was at least twenty years old. But as she examined each family member, her gaze kept returning to the man.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She’d seen him before…somewhere. But where?

Despite the fact that the man in the photo was twenty years younger and that he was trim, clean-shaven, and had dark hair, logic dictated that the man had to be Sam, and that the woman and boys had to be his family. Even so, the vast differences between the appearance of the man in the photo and the man she knew as Sam weren’t what made her question the logic of the two being the same person. Age and looks could easily alter the appearance of a person. Impossible as it seemed, what made her question the logic of the two men being the same was that she was sure she’d seen the man in the picture somewhere before, seen him looking exactly the way he appeared in the photograph. But where? And when?

Suddenly conscious of the time that had passed, Charlotte turned to leave. But as she passed the row of packing boxes, the one nearest the door caught her attention. It was packed with what looked like a lot of books, but what caught her eye was the framed certificate lying faceup on top of the stack.

Charlotte bent closer. Just as she’d thought, the certificate was a university degree, a degree from Tulane University made out to someone named Arthur Samuel. So who the devil was Arthur Samuel? The name was familiar, though she hadn’t the foggiest why at the moment. But more to the point, why would Sam have someone else’s degree?

Time…hurry…

Charlotte quickly made use of the bathroom facilities, and by the time she returned to the living room, Sam was waiting for her.

He stood up when she entered the room. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in,” he teased. “Either that or had a heart attack and croaked on my bathroom floor. But what I was really hoping for was that you decided to give me a freebie and clean it.”

Charlotte didn’t really appreciate his brand of humor, and just the thought of the filthy bathroom made her shudder. Unlike the other two rooms in the house, the bathroom was really gross. The shower was caked over with soap scum and body hair, the sink was smeared with toothpaste, and the inside of the toilet bowl was the stuff nightmares were made of.

“As you can see,” she retorted, “I didn’t fall in or die of a heart attack.”

“Guess you didn’t clean the bathroom either, huh?”

Charlotte grimaced, but chose to ignore his comment. “Now, about B.J.”

Sam shrugged and motioned toward the lone chair in the room. “Well, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk?”

Once they were both seated, Charlotte began by explaining about finding the box beneath B.J.’s bed, and she ended with what B.J. had revealed after she’d tracked him down at school.

“So you see,” she said. “For his own good, B.J. really needs to go to the police and tell them what happened, what he saw. And I was hoping that I could persuade you to talk to him, to convince him that’s the best thing to do.”

For several long moments, Sam stared at her, but nothing about the expression on his face gave her a clue as to what he was thinking.

Then, abruptly, he stood. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, he walked over to the window and gazed out into the front yard.

“B.J.’s a good kid,” he finally said. “Just mixed up. I should have encouraged him from the beginning to go to the police. Guess I didn’t because I know how brutal the police can be, especially with a boy like B.J. who’s been in so much trouble lately.”

He turned to face her. “But I see your point, and I will talk to him.”

Relief washed through Charlotte, and since she’d accomplished what she’d set out to accomplish, she stood, indicating she was ready to leave. “I appreciate it and it’s the right thing to do. When he’s ready to tell the police his story, let me know. My niece is a police detective, and contrary to your opinion of the police, she isn’t the brutal type. I’ll make sure she’s the one he talks to.”



Though Charlotte was relieved that Sam had agreed to talk to B.J. and she was confident that the teenager would listen to his friend and do the right thing, it wasn’t B.J. that filled her thoughts on the drive home.

For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she found herself preoccupied with what she’d discovered in Sam’s bedroom…the family portrait…the Tulane University degree…the strange name on the degree…

But why? Why did those things bother her, but more to the point, except for Sam’s influence on B.J., why should she even care about anything to do with Sam Roberts or his bedroom?


Chapter Twenty-two
O n Tuesday morning, Charlotte felt grumpy and out of sorts as she drove to Bitsy Duhe’s house. Not only had she slept badly, but she’d made the mistake of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage while she showered and dressed. She’d almost finished her shower when the silly parakeet had scared the daylights out of her by dive-bombing straight into the shower spray. The force of the spray had knocked him against the shower door, stunning the little bird senseless. He’d finally revived, but she was still worried about leaving him.

To make matters worse, traffic was moving slowly, and when she turned onto Magazine Street, it came to a complete standstill. Even now, as she parked in front of Bitsy’s house, she still hadn’t figured out what the holdup had been.

Most days when Charlotte cleaned Bitsy’s house, the old lady was waiting for her at the door. The fact that Bitsy wasn’t waiting didn’t concern Charlotte at first. But when she rang the doorbell and no one answered, she began to worry. Bitsy had seemed fine at the party Saturday night, but a lot could happen to an elderly lady living alone in two days. What if she’d fallen and broken a hip, or worse, what if she’d had a heart attack and died in her sleep?

Charlotte decided to knock instead of ringing the bell again, just in case the bell was on the blink. She rapped loudly. “Miss Bitsy, it’s Charlotte. Are you in there?”

Several more agonizing minutes passed; then, though faintly, Charlotte detected a noise on the other side of the door. When she recognized the sound of the security chain being unlatched, relief washed through her. When the door finally opened, her short-lived relief vanished.

“Oh, Miss Bitsy. What on earth?”

For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the elderly lady had always taken pride in her appearance and was always dressed, complete with makeup, by the crack of dawn each morning. The fact that she was still in her gown and robe would have been disturbing enough, but Charlotte could never recall seeing her look so pale and drawn.

With the limp wave of a hand, Bitsy dismissed Charlotte’s concern. “Just a bit under the weather this morning.” Her normally shrill voice was barely more than a breathless whisper and sounded far too weak to Charlotte’s ears. “Probably just a cold,” Bitsy continued. “Thanks to that awful Mrs. Jenkins. She sat behind me in church on Sunday, and if that woman sneezed once, she must have sneezed a hundred times during the service.”

Charlotte stepped through the doorway and placed an arm around the old lady’s waist. “Well, here, let’s get you back inside, out of the draft.” She nudged her back into the foyer, away from the door. “Judith told me there’s a lot of flu going around right now.” She released her hold long enough to close and lock the front door. “Did you have your flu shot yet?”

Bitsy looked at her with soulful eyes. “I kept meaning to, but what with Jenny’s visit and everything, I just never got around to it.”

Charlotte set down her supply carrier. “Well, first things first. Let’s get you back to bed, then I’ll call and see if we can get you an appointment with your doctor.”

Bitsy shook her head. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m really not up to driving to the doctor’s office and then having to sit there all morning.”

Charlotte gently ushered the old lady back toward her bedroom. “Don’t worry about that for now. Just leave it to me, okay?”

When Bitsy finally nodded, Charlotte smiled. “Now, off to bed with you.”

Once she’d made sure that Bitsy was tucked back into bed, she asked, “Have you had anything to eat this morning?”

Bitsy had already closed her eyes. “Nothing yet,” she mumbled. “Not hungry.”

“Well, you just rest for right now, and in a few minutes, I’ll bring you in a nice bowl of oatmeal and some juice.”



It was midmorning before Charlotte was finally able to speak with Bitsy’s doctor. Other than a prescription for a medication that would make her rest a bit more comfortably, he told her that essentially all that could be done was have Bitsy drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.

After determining which pharmacy Bitsy used, Charlotte left only long enough to pick up the prescription the doctor had called in. Once the old lady was resting more easily, she continued the chore of cleaning the house. But while she cleaned and alternately checked on Bitsy, Charlotte worried. In her opinion the old lady was much too ill to be left all alone.

It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte came to a decision. Whether Bitsy liked it or not, Charlotte decided that she would insist that Bitsy call her son or one of her granddaughters. She was sure they’d want to know and take steps to make sure the old lady was cared for.

Bitsy didn’t like it.

“There’s no use in calling Bradley,” the elderly lady argued. “He’d just worry and there’s nothing he can do anyway. I’ll be just fine.”

“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte argued back. “As his mother, you would want to know if he was ill, wouldn’t you?”

Bitsy nodded slowly.

“Well, why wouldn’t he want to know that you’re ill?”

“That’s different,” Bitsy quickly retorted.

“If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte repeated.

“You don’t understand, Charlotte. If Bradley thinks I can’t take care of myself, he might try to force me to move out to California or even put me in one of those awful homes for old people.”

Sudden tears sprang into the old lady’s eyes, and Charlotte wanted to cry herself. “Oh, no, Miss Bitsy. He wouldn’t do that, not just because you’re temporarily sick.” But even as she spoke the words, she knew that the old lady was probably right. That was exactly what her own son might do in a similar situation. Why, he was already nagging her to retire, wasn’t he? Retire and let him take care of her. And she wasn’t nearly as old as Bitsy.

More tears ran down the old lady’s wrinkled cheeks. “Please don’t call him, Charlotte. Please,” she whispered.

Feeling more ashamed of herself with each passing moment for upsetting the old lady, Charlotte rushed over to Bitsy, and placing her arm around her shoulders, she gently hugged her. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all upset. I’m just worried about leaving you here by yourself with you being so sick. Please don’t cry.”

After a moment, Bitsy sniffed, then nodded. “I’m okay.” Then with a spunk that Charlotte had to admire, she pulled away from Charlotte and said in a shaky voice, “Tell you what. There’s an agency that provides nursing care for us old folks at home, if we need it. I think they call themselves the Special Care Agency. If you promise not to call Bradley, I promise to call Special Care and see if they can send someone out for a couple of days.”

Charlotte smiled. “I think that’s a perfect solution. And again, I apologize. It’s just that I care about you and was worried about leaving you.”



The agency Bitsy called phoned back after lunch to inform Bitsy that yes, they could send someone out right away. Even though Charlotte had almost finished cleaning the elderly lady’s house, she decided that she would wait around until the nurse arrived, just to make sure whoever the agency sent was suitable.

She had just put away the last of the dishes from the dishwasher when, out of the clear blue, like the flash of a light-bulb in a dark room, she remembered where she’d heard the name Arthur Samuel before.

Arthur Samuel was the professor Bitsy had told her about, the one who had been convicted of vehicular homicide so many years ago. Bitsy had even showed her a picture of him in her granddaughter’s yearbook.

Hoping against hope that Bitsy hadn’t got around to mailing the yearbook back to her granddaughter yet, Charlotte hurried into the living room.

The moment she entered the room she spied the book still lying on the table in front of the sofa, just where Bitsy had left it a week ago. Charlotte picked up the book, and seating herself on the sofa, she quickly thumbed through the pages until she found the particular picture she was searching for.

At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, but the more she stared at the man in the picture, the more she became convinced that Arthur Samuel, a former professor of chemistry at Tulane University, and Sam Roberts, the scruffy handyman, were one and the same person.

Charlotte was still staring at the picture when the doorbell chimed. “Probably the nurse,” she murmured.

Closing the yearbook, she stood and placed the book back on top of the table. But as she rushed off toward the foyer, a myriad of questions whirled through her mind.

Was Sam Roberts really Professor Arthur Samuel? They could be brothers instead, or even distant cousins, which would account for the remarkable resemblance. Still, if Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel were the same person, it made sense that the professor would have changed his name because of his past. His looks would have changed too. After all, he was twenty years older now. But why on earth would he want to return to New Orleans in the first place?

…she divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Kansas where she was from. If what Bitsy had said was true, why wouldn’t he have moved to Kansas to be closer to his children?

Charlotte shook her head and unlatched the security chain at the front door. Lots of reasons, she decided. His children would be grown now and might not even live in Kansas. Besides, why would he want to live near his ex-wife? She was probably married again with a completely different life.

When Charlotte opened the door and saw the person standing on the other side, she was suddenly struck speechless. All she could do was stare up at the towering giant of man.

“Hi, there. I’m René with the Special Care Agency.”

Despite his size, he wasn’t fat. Just huge. He was probably in his early thirties, she figured, and though he was dressed in typical nurse scrubs, he didn’t look like any nurse she’d ever seen. His wealth of dark hair was long, but he’d pulled it back and secured it with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. On the lobe of one ear a small diamond stud twinkled back at her, and lodged in the side of his nose was a tiny gold hoop.

Charlotte swallowed hard. “May I see some identification please?” she finally asked.

“Sure thing.” With a quick and easy grin that showed a row of even white teeth, he pulled out a billfold and produced a picture I.D. card. The card, emblazoned with the Special Care Agency logo, identified him as René Lewis, RN.

Satisfied, but still a bit leery, Charlotte nodded, then motioned for him to come inside.

“So where’s Miss Bitsy?” he asked, glancing around.

Charlotte closed the door, but something about the way he’d asked about Bitsy gave her pause. “She’s in bed. Do you know Mrs. Duhe?”

Again he produced that easy grin. “Oh, sure. She and I are old friends, and I have to tell you, I jumped at the chance to take care of her. She’s a real sweetheart and such a feisty little thing to boot.”

Though Charlotte still wasn’t completely comfortable with the young man, she couldn’t easily ignore the obvious respect and affection in his voice.

Any doubts she might have had disappeared the moment Bitsy saw René walk into the room.

“Oh, René,” she cried. “I thought that’s who I heard.” Her pale, faded face absolutely beamed with delight.

René grinned. “Now, what’s all this about, young lady? What on earth is my best girl doing all laid up in the bed sick?”

A gentle giant, Charlotte decided as she watched René bend over and plant a kiss on the top of Bitsy’s head.

“Let’s get some vital signs on you, sweetheart,” he told Bitsy. “Then you can tell me what sort of mischief you’ve been up to lately.”



By the time Charlotte was ready to leave, she was more than confident that Bitsy would be well taken care of. But just in case the old lady took a turn for the worse, Charlotte left her own name and phone number with René.

Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The old adage was so true, Charlotte decided as she pulled away from the curb in front of Bitsy’s house. But did the same principle apply to Sam Roberts? Was she misjudging him without really looking beneath the surface?

“Only one way to find out,” she murmured. And she knew just the person to ask.


Chapter Twenty-three
A s soon as she got home, Charlotte slipped off her shoes and pulled on her moccasins. She immediately headed for the telephone, then abruptly stopped and did an about-face.

“First things first,” she murmured, eyeing Sweety Boy’s cage. “Hey, there, Boy.” She approached the little bird’s cage. “You took quite a spill this morning.” She poked her forefinger through the wires to gently stroke his head. “Guess that’ll teach you that little birds don’t belong in big, bad showers, huh? You feeling better? Huh, fellow? You look a bit perkier.”

Though the little bird rubbed against her finger and seemed alert enough, the fact that he’d yet to utter a sound since she’d come through the door was worrisome.

“Aren’t you going to talk to me? Say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte. Missed you.’”

The little bird continued staring at her but remained silent. Not even a tiny chirp.

After weighing the pros and cons of letting him out of the cage, she decided that maybe it would be best for the remainder of the day if she continued to keep him confined, just until she was sure that he had fully recovered.

Had the shower incident traumatized him more than she’d thought? With a deep frown of concern and one last glance at him, she finally turned away and walked over to her desk. If he still wasn’t talking by tomorrow, she supposed she’d have to consider taking him in to the vet.

At her desk, Charlotte flipped through her Rolodex until she found the name and phone number she was looking for; then she placed her call.

Mary Johnson was the daughter of a couple whom Charlotte had once worked for over the period of several years. But Mary just happened to be a managing editor for the Times-Picayune as well. If anyone knew where she could get more information on Professor Arthur Samuel, Charlotte figured that Mary would know.

When Mary answered the call on the fourth ring, Charlotte sat down at the desk and reached for a pen and notepad.

“Hi, Mary. This is Charlotte LaRue.”

“Oh, hey there, Charlotte. It’s good to hear from you.” Then she laughed. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling to complain about another one of our reporters. And speaking of that particular rude and pesky man, you’ll be happy to know that he’s gone—moved to Houston last I heard.”

“No, hon, I’m not calling to complain. But I can’t say I’m sorry that awful man moved on.” Charlotte shuddered, remembering how the freelance reporter had tried to chase her down after he’d found out that she worked for the Dubuissons. “So how are your folks? Still enjoying their retirement?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mary told her. “What with me working all hours here at the paper and them traveling all over the country, I hardly ever see them anymore.”

“So what happened to the flea marketing and junk sales hobby they were into?”

“Well, to quote Dad, ‘It got to be too much like work.’”

Charlotte laughed. “Sounds like something he would say—but listen, I don’t want to interfere with your work, but I was hoping you could help me out with something.”

“Now, Charlotte, you know I will if I can. So—what’s up?”

Charlotte rolled the pen between her fingers. “I need to track down some background information on a man—something that happened, hmm—probably a good twenty years ago. This particular incident would have been written up in the newspaper.”

After several moments of silence, Mary answered. “Twenty years is a long time, certainly before I hired on. I’d say your best bet would be the public library. They keep stuff like past issues of newspapers on microfilm, but you need to narrow it down to a particular month or else you’ll end up wasting a whole lot of time searching through old issues.”

Charlotte frowned. “There’s no faster way?”

“Afraid not. Like I said, twenty years is a long time ago.”



Because it was fairly close to where she lived and because she really loved the historical significance of the old building, Charlotte decided to go to the Latter Library on St. Charles Avenue. During the short drive, she racked her brain, trying to think of some significant incident that might have happened around the time that the hit-and-run had occurred.

If only she could pinpoint the month…Maybe October, she finally decided, vaguely remembering something about a costume party she’d worked that particular night.

Luckily, Charlotte was able to find a parking spot on St. Charles Avenue in front of the library.

Each time she visited the Latter Library, she was conscious of its history. The turn-of-the-century house had once been the home of a wealthy New Orleans merchant, then later the home of a celebrated millionaire aviator as well as a retreat for the millionaire’s wife, a famous silent screen star. But ultimately, the final owners were a couple who’d had a son die in Okinawa during World War II. As a memorial to their son, they had presented the old house to the New Orleans Public Library.

As Charlotte hurried to the entrance, she glanced at her watch. At best, she figured she only had a couple of hours before the library closed.

Once inside, she quickly explained to the librarian what she needed. To her disappointment, she was told that she would have to go to the main library headquarters located on Loyola Avenue to do research dating back twenty years.

Though not near as old or historic as the Latter Library, the main library had its own claim to fame and had once been presented the Design Award for Public Buildings in Progressive Architecture magazine.

Once again Charlotte explained what she needed.

The librarian she spoke to, a perky young woman, directed Charlotte to go to the Louisiana Division.

“You’re in luck,” she told Charlotte with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken, we have copies of the Times-Picayune that date back as far as 1837—all on microfilm.”

After more than an hour of scanning files, Charlotte finally located the articles about the professor’s arrest and trial. One of the articles included a head shot, and again, Charlotte was struck by the resemblance between the professor and Sam Roberts.

As she scanned through the articles, she began to notice a pattern. Time after time, during his arrest, and later, during his trial, the professor was persistent in proclaiming his innocence. But other than his avowal of innocence, Charlotte didn’t learn anything that proved to be of much help.

By the time she left the library, most of the work traffic had thinned out. Her drive home was uneventful, but like a persistent itch that refused to be soothed, thoughts about the professor and Sam plagued her.

Were they the same man? Even if they were, what difference did it make in the grand scheme of things anyway? And why in the devil did the whole affair bother her so much?

B.J., she decided as she turned into her driveway. The only reason she cared at all was the friendship between Sam and the boy, and the influence that Sam seemed to wield over the teenager at such a vulnerable time in the boy’s life. To Charlotte’s way of thinking, that was more than enough reason to check up on Sam Roberts’ background.

Even after Charlotte switched off the engine, she sat staring at the garage wall. Who else could she ask? she wondered, or where else could she find out information on Sam Roberts?

Under other circumstances, she could have asked Louis or Judith. Either of them could easily check into Sam’s background. But then she’d have to tell them why she was asking, and that was something she couldn’t do…not yet.

That left only one other person who might know something about Sam, hopefully something that would put her mind at rest. Unfortunately, that person was Marian Hebert.

Since Sam had worked for Marian’s husband and now worked for Marian, Charlotte was sure that Marian would have to know something about Sam’s background…where he came from, his marital status, all the things people normally made small talk about.

With a frustrated sigh, Charlotte gathered her keys and purse and headed inside. Brick wall time, she decided as she unlocked her front door. There was just no way of asking Marian about Sam Hebert’s background without betraying B.J.’s confidence…Or was there?



On Wednesday morning, Charlotte awakened to the sounds of Sweety Boy chirping away in his cage. Though she was relieved to know that the little bird had found his voice again and a trip to the vet wouldn’t be necessary after all, not even his squawks and chirps could cheer her up after the agonizing night she’d spent tossing and turning.

Off and on, during the seemingly endless night, she’d come up with, and discarded, several ideas on how to approach Marian about Sam Roberts without betraying B.J. The most obvious way was to pretend a personal, romantic interest in Sam. But the possibility that Marian might decide to play matchmaker and tell Sam that she’d been asking about him made Charlotte discard the idea immediately.

Then, just before dawn, Charlotte had finally settled on something that she felt might work.

The scheme she’d decided on was really pretty simplistic. What she needed was an innocuous way of introducing Sam into a conversation with Marian. Since Marian had attended Tulane University, Charlotte figured she’d simply mention the fact that Bitsy’s granddaughter had just been in town for the Tulane homecoming. Then she could casually bring up the subject of the yearbook and the remarkable resemblance between Sam and the professor; thus Sam would be introduced into the conversation.

But plotting a scheme and actually implementing it were two different animals altogether. Charlotte never had been good at deception, and in fact, abhorred anything that even resembled it. She figured that just this one time, though, she had no choice. B.J. was in trouble, and his whole future might depend on what she could find out.

With a herculean effort, Charlotte finally forced herself to climb out of bed when all she wanted to do was burrow back beneath the covers and forget everything. When she reached for her housecoat, she hesitated before pulling it on. With a sigh, her gaze strayed to the closet, where she’d hung up the new one.

Fingering the worn cotton terry of the old housecoat, she frowned. Except when she’d tried on the new robe to see if it fit on the morning after her birthday party, she had yet to begin wearing it. But why?

“You know why,” she grumbled as she jerked on the old one. Silly as the notion seemed, just knowing that Louis had picked out the new one smacked of an intimacy that she wasn’t yet comfortable with, nor sure she was ready for. Never mind that each time she looked at it, she was reminded of the two kisses they’d shared…well, not exactly shared.

Rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, and with a shake of her head, she stomped off toward the living room.

Most mornings, Charlotte made a point of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage for a few minutes while she dressed. Though he appeared to be back to normal, she decided that keeping him confined a little longer would be best, just until she was sure he was okay.

“If you’re still doing okay, I promise I’ll let you out when I get home this afternoon,” she told him as she refilled his feeder with birdseed.

But Sweety Boy wanted out now, and he quickly scooted toward the cage door when she opened it to replace his cuttle-bone. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She blocked the opening with her hand. “Not this morning, fellow.” Using her forefinger, she nudged him back toward the far end of the cage. “Be a good little bird now, and I’ll clean out that yucky cage Saturday.”



By the time Charlotte left for work, the sky had clouded over and a fine drizzle had set in, making the air chilly and dreary. As she backed her van out of the driveway, she glanced toward the other driveway and frowned. Louis’ car was gone.

Thinking back, she didn’t remember seeing it last night either. Nor did she remember hearing him come home during the night. So where was he? Had he come home?

Unease crept through her veins as she drove down Milan Street. Within reason, she knew there was probably a perfectly logical explanation for why he hadn’t come home. After all, he hadn’t retired yet. He still had two months left, and in his line of work, it seemed that the criminals never slept. But logic aside, she also knew that in his line of work, there was always the possibility of danger as well. Maybe she should call Judith, just to make sure he was okay, to make sure he hadn’t been hurt or…

“And maybe you should mind your own business,” she muttered as she slowed for a traffic light. Louis was a grown man and could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.



Most of the morning, Marian was in and out of the house on business, but when she’d come home after lunch, she’d told Charlotte, “Enough is enough for one day.”

Charlotte couldn’t agree more, she finally decided an hour later as she finished up in the boys’ bathroom. Enough was enough. No more procrastination.

Except for cleaning Marian’s office, she’d almost finished for the day, and like it or not, she was running out of time. So just do it and get it over with.

Inside Marian’s office, she set her supply carrier down by the desk. Then, with deliberate steps, she marched out of the room. Once in the hallway, she paused and tilted her head, her ears tuned to any noise that might tell her in which room she’d find Marian.

The clinking of dishes led her to the kitchen, and when she entered, Marian was at the stove, pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce into a small saucepan to heat.

Marian glanced up and gave Charlotte a quick smile. “Finished already?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Almost. I still have your office to clean.” She walked to the cabinet. “I just need a drink of water.” She removed a glass from the bottom shelf. “I swear, it’s like I’ve been thirsty all day long.” She shook her head. “It was like that yesterday too, at Miss Bitsy’s house. I just couldn’t seem to get enough to drink.” She walked over to the Kentwood water dispenser stand by the cabinet and filled her glass.

“Maybe you ought to go in for a good checkup,” Marian suggested.

Charlotte took a long drink of the water, then rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that—just last week—and I’m waiting for the test results.”

Since her health was the last thing Charlotte wanted to discuss, before Marian could ask any more questions, she said, “And speaking of Miss Bitsy. You know her granddaughter—the one who lives in New York?”

“Jenny?” Marian offered.

Charlotte nodded. “That’s the one. Well, a week or so ago she was in town for the Tulane homecoming reunion.”

Though Marian looked at her a bit strangely, Charlotte plowed right on ahead. “Miss Bitsy was so excited about the visit and was brimming over with all kinds of information about all the festivities. Jenny had even brought her yearbook with her.” Feigning excitement, Charlotte widened her eyes and smiled. “And guess who I saw in it?”

When Marian raised a skeptical eyebrow, Charlotte grinned. “There you were—all of you at some party! Until I saw that picture, I had no idea that you and your husband and Drew Bergeron had all gone to Tulane together.”

Marian gave Charlotte a tiny, nervous smile. “That was a long time ago.”

Charlotte nodded. “Over twenty years, according to the date on the yearbook.” She paused a moment; then, swallowing hard, she continued. “Such a shame about what happened with that professor that year though. You know—the one who was arrested for that hit-and-run.” She frowned. “I think his name was Arthur something.” She nodded. “Oh, yeah—now I remember. His name was Arthur Samuel. He was a chemistry professor, I believe.”

Marian grimaced, and though she tried to hide her reaction by turning back to the stove to stir the spaghetti sauce, all the color had suddenly drained from her face.

Puzzled by Marian’s response, Charlotte took another quick drink of water to give herself a moment to regroup. In for a penny, in for a pound. Lifting her chin, she pressed on. “I’d completely forgotten all about it until Miss Bitsy pointed him out. But you want to know something funny? If he’d had a beard and longer hair, and if he was twenty years older, he’d look just like Sam Roberts.”

Though Charlotte wouldn’t have believed it, Marian’s face grew even more pale, and her hand began to shake. To cover the trembling, she rapped the spoon she’d been stirring with sharply against the saucepan, then laid it on the stovetop. “I need a drink,” she muttered.

“Of course they say that everyone has a double somewhere in the world,” Charlotte persisted as Marian headed straight for the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. Then, affecting a nonchalance that she didn’t feel, she said, “Probably just coincidence that they look alike, and B.J. seems to think the world of Sam.”

Marian opened the bar cabinet and took out a decanter of what looked like bourbon.

“But that’s good, don’t you think?” Charlotte continued as she watched Marian pour a healthy amount into a glass. “Good that he has a male figure he can relate to…” Charlotte’s voice trailed away as Marian downed the drink within seconds, then poured herself another one. “Marian?”

Marian shook her head. “He’s found out,” she mumbled, downing the second drink. “Oh, dear God, somehow he’s found out.”

Charlotte frowned. Marian wasn’t making sense. Of all the reactions she’d anticipated, she hadn’t expected her to fall to pieces right before her very eyes. “Marian—What on earth? What are you talking about? Found out what?”

As if she’d just remembered that Charlotte was in the room, Marian jerked around to face her, her eyes wild with terror. “He’s found out, I tell you. He’s—”

The sudden peal of the doorbell seemed to make Marian even more frantic. “No,” she cried. “Please—” She waved toward the general direction of the front door. “See who that is and make them go away.”

Charlotte held up her hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Sure—okay—no problem.” With one last worried look at the younger woman and a frown of concern, she headed for the hallway.

Marian’s reaction was way over the top, but why?

He’s found out.

What on earth had she meant and why had it made her so nervous?

Just as Charlotte reached for the doorknob, she froze.…I know how brutal the police can be…

She hadn’t thought much about Sam’s remark at the time, but suddenly his words took on a whole new meaning. “Of course,” she whispered. Why else would he make such a statement unless he’d experienced it firsthand? And if he’d experienced it firsthand, then…If it looks like a shoe and wears like a shoe, then it must be a shoe.

The doorbell chimed again, and Charlotte jumped. Later…She’d have to think about it later.

Taking a deep breath, she pasted on a polite smile and opened the door. But Charlotte’s smile faltered when she saw the bedraggled woman standing on the porch.

The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, and she was soaked through and through from the top of her stringy bleached hair down to her mud-caked loafers. Because she was wet, at first Charlotte figured her for a homeless person. But after a quick perusal of the woman’s clothes, she changed her mind. Despite the fact that the woman’s jacket, blouse, and slacks were soaked, her clothes were quality.

Suddenly the woman pulled her hand out of her jacket pocket. At the sight of the handgun, a whisper of terror twisted Charlotte’s insides, and her legs went weak.

But when the woman shoved the gun against her stomach, Charlotte gasped from the sharp pain, and the whisper of terror became a deafening roar in her ears.