Epilogue
O n days like Thanksgiving, Charlotte wished for a bigger house. This particular year she was hosting the celebration for family and friends, and her small half of the double was bursting with people. She and Madeline had been cooking and baking for days, and food covered every inch of available counter space in the kitchen along with several card tables that had been temporarily set up for the occasion. She could barely move without bumping into someone, since everyone seemed bent on congregating in the kitchen. But then, that was what Thanksgiving was for, wasn’t it?
As Charlotte looked around, trying to count heads, she sighed. Why had she invited everyone and his brother this year? Because you’re a sucker for happy endings. Not only was her family there, but Louis’ son and family were joining them too.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and as if just thinking about him had conjured him up, Charlotte glanced back to see Louis right behind her.
“You feeling okay today?” he asked.
Counting to ten, Charlotte prayed for patience before she answered. Ever since Louis had heard the results of the glucose tolerance test she’d taken, he’d turned into a regular worrywart and a nag…along with her son and the rest of her family.
“I’m feeling just fine,” she finally said. “Remember? I’m just a borderline diabetic. And as long as I watch what I eat and take that little pill every day, I should continue to be just fine.” She forced a polite smile. “But thank you for your concern.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you. I really do appreciate you inviting my son and his family over today, so just in case I haven’t done so already, thanks.”
Charlotte shook her head. “You did thank me, Louis, about ten times and counting.”
Louis grinned. “Well, let’s make it eleven, then. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”
“That’s twelve,” she retorted.
“Can’t be too many. I would have never got up the courage to make contact with him if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Aunt Charley?”
At the sound of her niece’s voice, Charlotte turned toward the doorway.
Louis waved his hand. “She’s over here, Judith,” he called out. When Judith came closer, he teasingly told Charlotte, “Between you and me, I think things are getting serious with her and Billy. He—”
Judith playfully hit him on the arm with her fist. “Talking about me behind my back again, Lou?”
“Oops! Caught red-handed,” he replied with a wink at Charlotte. To Judith he said, “I think that’s my cue to mosey out into the backyard and rescue your brother. Last time I checked, my granddaughter and that little kid, Davy, were trying to see which one could wear out Daniel first with the airplane rides.”
Leaving Charlotte and Judith laughing, Louis slipped out the back door. Charlotte turned to Judith. “Was there something you needed, hon?”
“No—not really, but I did want to tell you the latest on Sam—I mean Arthur Samuel.”
“Latest?”
Judith nodded. “Why don’t we go into the hall or the bedroom? I’d just as soon not broadcast it to everyone.” With a jerk of her head, she indicated the people surrounding them.
“You lead the way and I’ll follow,” Charlotte told her.
Once they had maneuvered their way through the crowded kitchen and closed the door to the bedroom, both women sighed dramatically, then laughed.
“I can’t believe how many people we have this year,” Judith commented. “And all that food is unreal.”
“The more the merrier?” Charlotte quipped, tongue in cheek.
“Humph! If you say so, Auntie. And don’t look at me like that. Contrary to what you think, I am not antisocial. I just like my own space.” She waved a dismissing hand. “What I wanted to tell you though was that it looks like Sam—Arthur—will never make it to trial.”
Charlotte was so stunned, it took a moment for her to digest Judith’s words. “Why on earth not?” she finally asked.
“He’s got cancer of the liver and the prognosis isn’t good at all. According to the doctor who was called in, even if he should make it to trial, he’ll never live long enough to see the inside of a prison.”
For a moment, Charlotte was thoughtfully silent. “Justice,” she finally whispered.
“What was that, Auntie?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I was just thinking out loud how ironic it is that Sam—Arthur, that is—was the one who was seeking justice and now it’s come full circle. And speaking of justice, what’s happened to Darla Shaw?”
Judith sighed. “Well, she’s in a lot of trouble—blackmail, attempted armed robbery—take your pick. But since she doesn’t have any priors, and with a decent attorney, who knows?”
“And B.J.?”
“What about B.J.?” Judith smiled slyly and winked at her aunt.
“Nothing,” Charlotte answered with an understanding grin. “Why, nothing at all. But enough of all of that. For today I don’t want to think about Sam or Darla or Drew Bergeron or the Heberts. For today, I just want to enjoy my friends and family.” She hesitated for a moment. Then, with a teasing grin, she asked, “So how’s that nice Billy Wilson these days?”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “You can ask him yourself in a little while, since I took the liberty of inviting him over for dinner. Although now,” she quickly added, “I’m having second thoughts. Billy grew up an only child from a very small family. Poor man won’t know what to think about this bunch.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Er—ah, rumor has it that things are, shall we say, getting serious between you two.”
Judith rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, don’t believe everything you hear, Auntie, especially if it comes from Lou.”
It was about an hour later when Charlotte asked Hank to gather everyone in the kitchen.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” he called out. “Attention, please!” When, after a few moments, the talking and laughter died down, he said, “My mother wants to thank you all for coming and sharing in this day of Thanksgiving with her. We’ll have the blessing, then everyone can dig in.”
As prearranged, Hank said the blessing, and while Charlotte listened to her son’s deep, soothing voice give thanks for their family, their friends, and being able to live in a free country, in spite of her resolve concerning Arthur Samuel, her thoughts drifted back to what Louis had once said about him and to what Judith had just told her.
Arthur Samuel had once had everything important in life: a family, a career, his health, and respectability. Now he had nothing. Such a needless tragedy, she thought sadly. And all because somewhere, somehow, he’d lost his way. In the beginning, he’d been a victim, but in the end, seeking revenge had cost him everything. Now he would die all alone in prison, without the benefits of the love of friends or family or respectability.
Sudden shame washed through Charlotte. Considering Arthur Samuel’s fate, her own problems seemed petty by comparison, and turning sixty was just a small grain of sand on the seashore of life.
Charlotte cringed just thinking about how selfish she’d been over the past month, moaning and groaning and sitting on her pity pot about something so insignificant as another birthday, when she should have been down on her knees, giving thanks. Yes, she had a health problem, but at least she could continue to live a normal life. But even more, she had a wonderful family who loved and supported her, and friends who respected her.
“…and thank you, Lord, for this food we’re about to receive, and we ask your blessings upon it. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
Adding her own personal prayer for forgiveness and thanks, Charlotte whispered an affirming “Amen.”
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A Cleaning Tip from Charlotte
To prevent grimy buildup and to clean stained grout in a ceramic tile floor, add a small amount of chlorine bleach to warm soapy water each time you mop. Be sure and rinse well afterwards. A word of caution: never mix bleach with products that contain ammonia.
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On Friday morning, Charlotte couldn’t believe how much better she felt as she locked her front door and headed for the van. Climbing inside the van, she found herself humming the old song, “What a Difference a Day Makes.”
And it was true, she thought. Just as the song title implied, one day could make all the difference in the world. And so could something as simple as an apology.
While she was waiting for several cars to pass before backing into the street, her thoughts turned introspective. Though Charlotte truly didn’t believe that one person’s happiness and well-being should depend on another person, she was a realist. Being at odds with her only sister had been a miserable experience and had really had an effect on her. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, she was sure. And in theory, yes, happiness had to come from within, but theory didn’t always take into account that people were only human, and humans needed to live in harmony with those they loved.
The street was clear of traffic, and as Charlotte backed onto Milan, her gaze strayed to the driveway on the other side of her house and her thoughts turned to Louis Thibodeaux. Louis’s blue Taurus was gone, she noted. So where was he at this time in the morning? she wondered as she drove past her house. She didn’t remember hearing him leave earlier, but he could have left while she was in the shower.
None of your business. “And what do you care, anyway?” she muttered as she ignored the tiny voice in her head that answered back, insisting that she did care, probably more than she should.
The drive to her Friday client’s home usually took about ten minutes, depending on traffic. Though there was a steady flow of traffic today, it moved along without any delays for a change.
Almost a year had passed since Charlotte had begun working for Marian Hebert on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. In that year she’d seen Marian undergo some dramatic changes.
A widow in her late thirties, Marian was well on her way to overcoming an alcohol addiction and getting a firm hold on raising her two sons. But the journey to sobriety hadn’t been an easy one. It had taken a murder and a life-threatening experience to jolt Marian out of the quagmire of self-pity and guilt that she’d buried herself in.
Charlotte shivered, recalling the particular incident all too well. In retrospect the whole thing seemed like a bad dream, but unlike a nightmare, the memory of which usually faded with time, even now, five months later, Charlotte could still recall each terrifying minute. She and Marian had both done well to escape with their very lives, and Charlotte wasn’t sure she would ever forget the horror of it all.
As Charlotte parked the van alongside the curb in the front of Marian’s home, she couldn’t help noticing the difference between Marian’s home and Patsy’s home. Both were architecturally the same raised-cottage type, but that was where all similarities ended.
Though Marian’s house was old, too, it wasn’t nearly as old as Patsy’s, and whereas Patsy was a stickler for historical accuracy, with only a few concessions for modern conveniences, Marian had no such compunctions. Patsy’s home was a historical showplace. Marian’s home was…well…it was a home.
Before his death, Marian and her husband had remodeled their home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.
Sons. Children. Maybe that was the real difference. Patsy had no children, no one to think of but herself and her little dog, Missy.
From the back of her van, Charlotte gathered the supplies she would need and filled her supply carrier. She was thinking that she’d make a second trip for her vacuum cleaner when it suddenly dawned on her that her vacuum cleaner wasn’t in the van. So where on earth was it?
When she suddenly remembered, she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Just great!” she muttered. “Just wonderful!” Of Course. It was right where she’d left it. It was still at Patsy Dufour’s house.
Charlotte preferred to use her own equipment when cleaning. There had been too many times she’d had the experience of pulling out a client’s vacuum only to find that it was either broken or there were no vacuum bags to replace the full one inside the machine.
“Thanks for nothing, Maddie,” she grumbled as she added a bottle of window cleaner to the supply carrier. “That’s what I get for letting my temper get the best of me and not thinking straight.”
All she could do for now was hope that Marian’s vacuum was in working order, she finally decided. Charlotte pulled out the notepad and pen she always kept in her apron pocket and jotted down a reminder note. Call Patsy Dufour about vacuum cleaner and arrange a time to pick it up. Slipping the notepad and pen back inside her pocket, she grabbed the supply carrier, slammed the van door shut and locked it.
Once through the front gate, she climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open. Like a whirlwind, Aaron Hebert rushed past her.
“Hi, Ms. LaRue. I’m late. Gotta go. Bye, Ms. LaRue.”
“Hi and bye, Aaron,” she called after him. “Have a good day.” Charlotte smiled as she watched the eight-year-old boy lope down the sidewalk. With his blond hair and blue eyes, Aaron reminded her a lot of her nephew, Daniel, when he had been Aaron’s age. Though not as mischievous as mischievous as Daniel had been, Aaron was just as full of life, and loved to talk about anything and everything.
“Aaron Hebert, you come back and shut that door! Oops!” Marian Hebert’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Hi, Charlotte. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
Charlotte laughed. “No problem.”
It was around two that afternoon when Charlotte stopped off at Patsy Dufour’s to pick up her vacuum. When Patsy didn’t answer the doorbell, Charlotte figured she would find her in the backyard.
Just as she rounded the back corner of the house, she came to an abrupt halt. Once again, the old song she’d hummed earlier came to mind. The large, ugly hole in Patsy’s backyard had been transformed overnight into a lovely pond, complete with a fountain in the middle. The mounds of dirt on either side of the hole had been leveled and carpeted with squares of lush green grass. Tropical plants and shrubbery had been added around the edges of the pond, and, almost like magic, the whole area had been turned into a serene, lush garden.
“Hey, watch it! Be careful with that.” Patsy’s loud command jerked Charlotte’s attention toward the patio.
“That” turned out to be a huge statue. So why did it look familiar? Charlotte wondered as she narrowed her eyes in concentration. She’d seen that statue before…somewhere. But where?
“Of course,” she murmured. If memory served her right, it was a copy of a famous Henry Moore sculpture, one called Madonna and Child. And a smaller, poor copy at that, she thought as she watched the two burly workers struggle to move it to the opposite side of the pond. As the workers positioned the statue near the edge of the pond, the sight of it opened a floodgate of memories for Charlotte, memories mostly of her father.
Though her father had made his living as a mechanic, he’d been a gentle man, an artist at heart. He’d loved all art forms, but his favorite had been sculptures. And he’d passed on that love to his oldest daughter.
Above all, Charlotte’s parents had wanted her to get a college education. And she’d wanted that, too…until she’d met her son’s father. Even after Hank Senior had been killed in Vietnam and Hank Junior had been born, her folks had still insisted that she continue her college education. It had been during her second semester that her father had urged her to take an art course, one that concentrated on modern sculptors, and she’d chosen Henry Moore and his works for her term paper.
A signal from Patsy caught Charlotte’s eye, and Charlotte shook her head to dispel the painful memories. Patsy waved and held up her forefinger, indicating she’d be done in a minute. It was then that Charlotte realized that the statue was in place and that the men were in the process of moving a huge urn from beneath the portico.
The urn was almost as tall as the men moving it. The foot and lip of the vessel appeared to be about the same size, probably about two to three feet in diameter. But the girth of the urn had to be a good four or five feet in circumference. Unlike the many ornate ones she’d seen that decorated the famous above-ground cemeteries in and about New Orleans, the design of Patsy’s urn was smooth and simplistic to the extreme. And though its simplicity was its beauty, it was also a major problem for the workers.
Getting a good hold on it was almost impossible. Both men were drenched in sweat from their efforts, and by the sounds of the grunts coming from them, Charlotte decided that the thing had to weight an enormous amount.
The workers almost had it out from beneath the overhang of the porch. But the going was slow, and Charlotte began to wonder if they would be able to make it all the way to the pond.
“A whole person could fit inside that thing,” she murmured, watching the men struggle.
“Be careful with that,” Patsy demanded. “It’s old and—”
The words had no sooner left Patsy’s mouth when one of the men lost his grip and dropped his side. The movement caused the other worker’s hold to slip, and the urn hit the flagstone patio with a resounding thud.
Patsy shrieked in horror. “Now look!” she cried. “Just look what you’ve done to my beautiful urn. You’ve cracked it.”
Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, Charlotte stepped closer. Sure enough, there was definitely a large half-moon-shaped crack on one side just above the foot of the base.
For long minutes, Patsy, the two workers, and Charlotte simply stared at the crack. Finally the larger of the two men spoke up. “It can be fixed, ma’am,” he said nervously. “I—I know a man down in da Quarter who does dat kind of ting. He can fix it so you never know it wuz ever cracked.”
Patsy shifted her gaze to glare at the worker. After several moments, she finally emitted a large sigh and nodded. “Yes—yes, of course it can,” she retorted, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “But until then—” She motioned toward the porch with a jerky movement of her arm. “Let’s move it back for the time being. But pu-lease—move it ve-ry carefully,” she added, dragging out her words as if instructing a couple of two-year-olds instead of grown men.
Both workers looked so relieved it was comical. The larger of the two nodded at the smaller one. “On three,” he said gruffly. Both men squared their feet on either side of the urn and each grabbed hold. “One…two…three—”
The moment the men picked up the urn and moved it, the cracked portion broke loose.
“Wait!” Patsy shouted. “Stop!”
But the men had already shuffled a couple of steps sideways and the damage was done.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Patsy cried, staring at the bottom portion that had fallen free. “Now look what you’ve done!”
But Charlotte went stone still. “Oh, no,” she murmured, her eyes on the gaping hole in the bottom of the urn. The urn hadn’t been empty, and almost immediately she recognized what had fallen out of the hole.
Bones.
Large bones that looked suspiciously like a hand and fingers. Charlotte shivered. But were they really human bones?
A deep dread spread within her. No matter how much she would have preferred them to be the bones of some poor animal who had crawled in the urn and died, she had a horrible feeling that they were exactly what they appeared to be.
“Charlotte? What’s wrong?” Patsy glanced over at Charlotte.
At the moment Charlotte couldn’t utter a sound, nor could she take her eyes off the bones. All she could do was point at the bones.
With a puzzled frown, Patsy followed Charlotte’s gaze back to the hole, then stepped closer to the urn. As she bent to inspect the hole more closely, her eyes widened in horror. With an earsplitting scream, she threw up her hands to either side of her head and quickly backed away.
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