Dusted to Death (5 page)

Heather paused and stared expectantly at Charlotte.

“How did you get that bruise?”

Heather’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to cover her upper cheekbone. Whirling around, she leaned in close to the mirror, searching her reflection for any sign of the bruise. Seemingly satisfied, she faced Charlotte. “I have to tell you that I pride myself on being a professional makeup artist. So how did you know that I have a bruise?”

“You can cover up a bruise,” Charlotte told her gently, “but not the swelling. And unfortunately, I’ve seen this type of thing before. Oh, you did an excellent job covering the bruise, all right, but that’s not really the bottom line here. The bottom line is, who’s been hitting you?”

“Why would you think
anyone
has been hitting me? For all you know, I could have run into a door or something. Besides, I don’t see that it’s any of your business, one way or another.”

“No, it probably isn’t, but like I said, I’ve seen it before, and if you believe nothing else, please believe that nothing good comes out of an abusive relationship.” Though it was possible that she was wrong, Charlotte didn’t think so, especially considering Heather’s defensive tone. “Heather, no one, but no one, has a right to hit you.”

Heather stared at her for a moment, as if pondering what to say next; then her eyes filled with tears. “He—he doesn’t m-mean to. He just has a bad temper.”

Charlotte was on the verge of asking who “he” was when someone near the stairs yelled out Heather’s name.

Blinking back the tears, Heather sniffed. “Coming,” she yelled back. With a wary, haunted look at Charlotte, she said, “I’ve got to go.” She took one last glance at the dressing table, then froze. “Oh, no, I completely forgot,” she groaned. She picked up a black velvet jewelry box off the dressing table, hesitated, and then faced Charlotte. “Could you do me a huge favor?”

“Sure, I’ll try.”

Heather handed Charlotte the box. “Make sure that Dalton gets this. It’s the duplicate pearl necklaces for the next scene,” she explained. “I was supposed to give them to Dalton earlier, but forgot.” She motioned for Charlotte to follow her and headed out the door.

As they walked down the hallway toward the stairs, Heather said, “FYI, we always keep duplicates of a major prop in case they have to shoot the scene over. In the upcoming scene the necklace will be broken when Hunter yanks it off Angel during an argument. According to the script, it’s a necklace that Hunter’s character had given his wife, and Angel’s character had taken it without his permission.”

By the end of shooting that first day, Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. The only thing she knew for certain was that every bone in her body ached, and if she had to go up or down those stairs one more time, she’d have to crawl. No one had bothered to warn her that, in addition to cleaning up after everyone involved in the shooting, she would be everyone’s gofer as well. It seemed like every five minutes, someone was yelling for her to do something.

Unlike the freezing temperature inside the house, outside the sun beat down, and the hot air was so heavy with humidity that taking a deep breath was an effort. In the time it took to walk to her van, sweat had beaded on her upper lip, and the hair at the nape of her neck was wringing wet.

Just as she clicked the remote to unlock her van, she glanced in the side mirror and saw a man approaching her from behind. Something about the man made her immediately wary and she quickly glanced around to make sure she wasn’t alone.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out. “Could I talk to you just a minute?”

Her instincts said to ignore him, to just get inside her van, lock the doors, and go home. But was it instinct or was it just leftover fear from the frightening incident that had happened to her last October? Probably a bit of both, she decided, but unlike that other time, this man looked to be only armed with a small spiral notebook and pen instead of a gun. And instead of being caught after dark in a deserted parking lot, she was out in the broad daylight with plenty of people within hollering range.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte turned to face the man. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

“Ma’am, my name is Bruce King. I’m a writer—Angel’s biographer, in fact.” He laughed. “And no, I’m not related to the famous Stephen King.”

Yeah, you wish
, she thought, not finding his silly attempt at humor the least bit funny. “Like I said, what do you want?”

“Your name is Charlotte, isn’t it? Charlotte LaRue?”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “And just how do you know my name?”

The smarmy man laughed again. “Like I said, I’m Angel’s biographer, so I know everything about what goes on when it concerns Angel.”

Charlotte bit her tongue. If he knew “everything,” then why did he need to talk to her, a mere maid? And another thing, no one had mentioned anything to her about Angel having a biographer. Besides, if he were the real deal, wouldn’t he have been hanging out inside the house instead of accosting the maid outside? Humph! More than likely, he was lying through his teeth and was probably one of those sleazy tabloid reporters.

“For instance,” he continued, tilting his head closer as if they were about to share a secret, “I heard that Angel and Nick had a knock-down, drag-out about that new script that Simon wants her to read.” He shook his head. “Poor Nick. He might be Angel’s main squeeze for the moment, but Simon should know better than to think he could influence Angel by using Nick.”

Main squeeze?
Interesting term, she thought, but not one she’d likely use.

“So, did Angel throw anything at him this time?”

Warning bells of suspicion clanged louder in Charlotte’s head. Enough was enough. “Listen, mister, Angel’s relationships, good or bad, are none of my business. And they’re certainly none of your business. You’re no more her biographer than I’m the Queen of England.”

Totally ignoring her accusation, he said, “Hey, I’m just trying to authenticate my facts here. I may be a lot of things, but I don’t make up the stuff that I write. I’m a stickler for the truth.”

When Charlotte narrowed her eyes accusingly and tilted her head to one side, a red flush tinged his cheeks. “Well, I am,” he quickly added. “No matter what, I make sure that my
writing
is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Yeah, right.” Charlotte turned away. Why was she even listening to this goofball?

“Hey, I’ll prove it!” He quickly stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her path to the van’s door. “In one of Angel’s recent press releases, it said that she grew up in Atlanta, Georgia.” He shook his head. “Not true. I did a little research of my own, and there’s no record of her ever living there. In fact, there’s only five other women in the whole U.S.A. named Angel Martinique, and none of them fit our Angel’s description or age.”

He waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know Angel is probably just a stage name, but most times, an actor’s real name surfaces at some point.” He shook his head. “Not this time, though, and believe me, I’ve been doing some digging. What I’m after is her real name. And I’d gladly pay someone—pay you—for any information that you could find out.” He paused for a moment. “So, how about it?”

“How about what?” Charlotte shot back.

“How about helping me out here? See what you can find out? I’d make it worth your while.”

Enough was enough. “Tell you what I will do,” she said between clenched teeth. “If you move out of my way and leave now, I won’t call those security guards over there.” She motioned to where two of the guards were standing near the roadblocks. “But!” She pointed at him with her forefinger. “One more word and I’ll start screaming my head off.” He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Not a word! Now get out of here before I lose the little patience I have left.”

To give the man credit, after only a brief moment he threw up his hands in surrender and backed off.

Charlotte quickly loaded up her supply carrier, got inside the van, and hit the automatic door lock mechanism. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The man hadn’t moved. He was still standing where she’d left him.

Though traffic wasn’t light, it wasn’t bumper-to-bumper either. The first thing that Charlotte noticed when she pulled into her driveway was Louis standing on the front porch. The next thing she noticed was his suitcase beside the post nearest the steps. Another trip? So soon?

She slid out of the van and, pasting a smile on her face, headed for the steps. “Going somewhere?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t want to leave without letting you know.”

Since when did he feel that he had to check in and out with her before he went somewhere? She certainly didn’t feel that way. Besides, he could have left a note.

Charlotte trudged up the steps and winced as each step sent a sharp pain through her knee.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that a couple of Tylenol and a soak in a tub of hot water won’t cure. Too much climbing stairs today.” Not one to complain to others, Charlotte changed the subject. “So, where to this time?” She motioned at the suitcase, then walked over and unlocked her front door.

“Back to Houston. For several days this time.”

Still wondering why he thought he had to wait for her, she faced him and nodded. “Well, have a good trip.” She twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

“Wait up a minute, Charlotte.”

Hesitating a moment and getting more irritated by the second, she finally pulled the door closed and faced him again. “What?”

Several seconds passed, and still he said nothing.

“Look, I’ve had a long day and I’m tired, so please, whatever it is, just spit it out.”

“We need to talk. Have a serious talk,” he emphasized.

“So, talk, for Pete’s sake.”

He shook his head. “Not here and not now. I have to get on the road and I can see that you’re in no mood to listen. But when I get back—”

“Okay. Fine. When you get back, we’ll talk. Now, may I go inside?”

For an answer, Louis waved his hand, then picked up his suitcase. Unlike the last time he’d left, she didn’t wait around, nor did he try to kiss her.

“Fine with me,” she grumbled as she locked the front door behind her. “Everything’s just peachy.”

Only later that night, once she was in bed, did she wonder what in the world he’d meant by “serious.”

E
arly on Tuesday morning, Charlotte headed up the staircase at Bitsy’s house. In her hand was a sheaf of papers that had script changes that she’d been told to give Angel. Halfway up the stairs she froze as the sudden sounds of screaming and cursing spiraled down. Angel’s voice, easily recognizable, screaming accusations. And a man’s voice yelling back. Possibly Nick, the boyfriend?

Charlotte winced; if ears could really burn from hearing profanity, hers would be smoldering stubs for sure.

What to do? What to do? She glanced down the staircase to the first floor where people were scurrying about. The only sign that anyone else was even paying attention was the occasional furtive look cast upward where she was standing.

Wasn’t anybody going to do anything?

Guess not, she finally decided, but somebody needed to do something. From the sound of things, the argument was escalating fast.

With a resigned sigh and a shake of her head, she trudged up the stairs. If they were still going at it by the time she reached the second floor, then she’d…

What? Just what do you think you can do? Besides, it’s none of your business.

Momentarily ignoring the voice of reason in her head, she kept climbing the stairs. At the second-floor landing, she froze again. Just down the hallway, standing outside the door to Angel’s dressing room, was her bodyguard, Toby, Mr. Clean himself, his arms crossed and a bored look on his stoic face.

For Pete’s sake, why was he just standing there? Of all people, shouldn’t he be doing something? Wasn’t his job to protect Angel?

Charlotte’s hand tightened around the script. More to the point at the moment, what should she do?

Say something to Toby. Demand he do something.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Without warning, a stiletto-heeled sandal sailed through the doorway, followed by a second one. With a clunk, the first shoe hit the wall opposite the doorway and bounced back, the spiky heel coming within just inches of Toby’s head. With lightning reflexes, Toby threw up his hand and caught the second one the moment it bounced off the wall. For a moment he stared at the shoe; then abruptly, quick as a wink, he turned and disappeared through the doorway.

Within seconds, the cursing stopped, and except for a distinctly male groan of pain, no other sounds came from the room. Moments later, Toby, towering over Nick, shoved the smaller man through the doorway into the hall.

Charlotte swallowed hard. With one meaty hand, Toby had Nick’s arm twisted up behind his back and with his other hand he had a firm grip on Nick’s shoulder.

His expression dark and angry, Nick spat out a profanity. “You’re breaking my arm.”

Toby’s eyes narrowed and in a deep, gravelly voice edged with steel, he said, “Shut your filthy mouth or I’ll break more than just your arm.” As if to emphasize his point, he jerked Nick’s arm even higher.

“Okay, okay,” Nick cried out. “Ease up, man.”

With a satisfied nod, Toby told him to “Move it” and marched him down the hallway toward the staircase. “This time I want you off the property.”

They were headed right toward Charlotte, and she had nowhere to go to get out of the way, so she plastered herself against the wall. Afraid that any minute Nick would break free and there would be a brawl, she didn’t dare move a muscle until the two men passed her. Only when they’d disappeared down the staircase did she remember to breathe again.

Charlotte glanced down at the script in her hand. Now what? Should she still take it to Angel?

Almost as if Angel had read her thoughts, Charlotte heard her yell, “Where is that maid? Get her in here now! And find Max. Tell him to get up here.”

Within seconds, Heather Cortez appeared in the dressing room doorway. Up until that moment, it had never occurred to Charlotte that there might be someone else in the room during the brawl between Angel and Nick.

“Oh, Charlotte, there you are, thank goodness,” Heather said as she hurried toward her. “Angel wants to see you.” A momentary look of discomfort crossed her pale face. “But I guess you heard her, huh?”

When Charlotte nodded, Heather managed a tremulous smile in response, and Charlotte couldn’t help noticing that Heather’s eye didn’t look quite as puffy as it had the day before.

“I have to find Max,” Heather continued. “He’s the director. I’ll be right back, though.” With that, she brushed past Charlotte and hurried down the stairs.

Figuring there was only one reason that Angel would ask to see “that maid,” Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, squaring her shoulders and reminding herself that Angel was not the devil incarnate, but simply a spoiled brat, she headed for the dressing room doorway.

When she entered the room, at first Charlotte didn’t notice Angel for the clutter that seemed to cover every inch of the floor. Evidently, the shoes weren’t the only items she’d thrown during her temper tantrum. The room bore no resemblance to how Charlotte had left it the day before and was a total mess. Then she spied Angel. The young woman was half hidden behind a rack of clothes and standing as still as a statue as she stared out of the window.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “You wanted to see me?”

At first Angel didn’t respond. When she did finally turn to face Charlotte, her face reflected the ravages of her tantrum. In a clipped, impatient tone, she said, “Clean up this mess, and when Max gets here, tell him I’m in the master bedroom.”

Charlotte nodded. “Okay. One thing, though. I was told to give you this.” She held out the script. “They said that some changes had been made.”

Anger flashed in Angel’s eyes. Without a word, and without a thank-you or kiss my butt, she snatched the script from Charlotte and stomped out of the room.

Seconds later, Charlotte heard a bedroom door down the hallway slam shut. “Brat,” she muttered as she picked her way through the mess on the floor. Once she had most of the clutter put back where it belonged, she removed the liner from the wastebasket and left to take it to the outside garbage receptacle.

On the way down the staircase, Charlotte met a wiry, baldheaded man who was on his way up. She paused. “Ah, excuse me. Are you Max, the director?” When the man nodded, she said, “I’m Charlotte, the maid.”

“Yeah, I know who you are. What do you want? I’m in sort of a hurry right now.”

“Sure, but Angel asked me to tell you that she would be waiting in the master bedroom.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Great. Just wonderful,” he responded, his voice heavy with sarcasm, as he brushed past her and continued up the stairs.

Outside the kitchen door, Charlotte deposited the trash bag into the garbage receptacle. When she turned to reenter the house, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Nick and Toby on the front edge of the property. Though she couldn’t hear what Toby was telling Nick, she knew from the fierce expression on his face and the way he was poking Nick in the chest with his forefinger, whatever he was saying couldn’t be good.

“Mutt and Jeff,” she murmured. Though Nick was well built, Toby towered over him. But then Toby towered over most people.

Just as she made up her mind to go back inside, Nick suddenly drew back his fist and Charlotte froze. In a move quick as lightning, Toby grabbed Nick’s fist, twisted him around, and brought him to his knees. Out of nowhere, two security guards suddenly appeared just as Toby drew back his hand to deliver what Charlotte could only speculate was a karate chop. Each security guard grabbed an arm and pulled Toby off Nick. Then the larger of the two men stepped in front of Toby and said something to him. Whatever he’d said must have worked, because with one last glare at Nick, Toby did an about-face and headed for the house. Then the security guards took hold of Nick’s arms and escorted him all the way to his car.

Would this day never end?

It was only barely noon, but Charlotte’s legs ached and she felt like groaning out loud as she walked down the steps of the back porch and headed for the food tent. Though she suspected that most of her aches and pains were the result of so many trips up and down the stairs doing Angel’s bidding, she feared that she could be coming down with a summer cold or the flu.

Charlotte eyed the outside of the completely enclosed white tent that had been assembled at the back of Bitsy’s property. Dalton had told her there would be a catered lunch buffet for the crew and that she was to feel free to help herself.

Unsure exactly what to expect, she stepped through the flaps that served as the door to the tent, and a blast of blessedly cool air hit her. Air-conditioning? In a tent? Impressive.

Glancing around, she saw that there was a long buffet table at one end of the tent for the food, while several smaller tables and chairs had been placed in the remaining space. The whole thing almost resembled a small restaurant.

By the time that Charlotte had filled her plate and selected a bottle of water from the small tub full of various types of iced-down drinks, all of the tables and chairs were occupied.

The only other shade in the backyard was beneath the back portico of Bitsy’s house. In addition to the shade, there was also a fan on the ceiling of the porch. Charlotte climbed the steps. Though tempted to sit at the top of the steps, she decided that sitting off to the side was more practical, especially with people coming in and out of the house. Selecting a spot on the edge of the porch near a column, she put her food and drink down first. Then, with a groan, she lowered herself to the floor of the porch and dangled her legs off the side.

She had just settled in to eat when she noticed a man walking toward her. A frown knotted her forehead. The tall, middle-aged man was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and black dress pants and he looked vaguely familiar. Over the past two days, she’d met a lot of the movie people, but she didn’t remember him being one of them. So where had she seen him before?

Probably someone she’d met somewhere else, she decided.

“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Charlotte shrugged. “Not at all. And by the way, my name is Charlotte—Charlotte LaRue.”

The man’s smile grew wider, showing a mouthful of white, perfectly straight teeth. “Oh, I know who you are, and you know me. You just don’t recognize me, do you?”

Charlotte felt heat flood her face. “You do look familiar,” she admitted. When he busied himself settling down next to her and didn’t say anything, she finally said, “Well? Are you going to tell me who you are or keep me guessing all afternoon?”

The man laughed as if she’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “I’m tempted to keep you guessing, but a really nice lady once told me that it’s not nice to tease your elders.”

“Humph, sounds like something I would say.”

“Oh, does it, now?” He chuckled. “Hmm, maybe I’ll give you a hint first. How’s my old friend Hank been doing? And do you still make a red velvet cake for Hank on his birthday each year?”

“Benny? Benny Jackson!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

So it was true. The Benny Jackson that was Angel’s chauffeur
was
the same Benny Jackson that was once Hank’s best friend when they were young teenagers.

Again Charlotte felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Oh, Benny, I’m so sorry that I didn’t recognize you right away.”

Benny laughed. “After the misery Hank and I put you through, you probably wanted to just forget that I ever existed.”

“Yes, well, there was that—the misery part. The both of you together were certainly a handful.”

Benny grinned. “Yeah, back then I was trouble with a capital T. I never told you this, and I’m glad I finally have the opportunity to do so, but I have you to thank for finally getting me on the straight and narrow. If it hadn’t been for your influence in my life back then, I’d probably have ended up in jail.”

Stunned and momentarily speechless, Charlotte swallowed the sudden knot of emotion growing in her throat.

“When I think back to all the sh—oops, sorry, I mean
stuff
I was doing—it was a wonder that you let me in the front door at all.” Benny winked. “See, I still remember all those tongue-lashings you gave me about using proper language, especially around ladies.”

Charlotte smiled and Benny paused to take a bite of the fried chicken leg on his plate. “You’re really looking good, Benny,” she told him. “As for Hank, he became a doctor—a surgeon. He and his wife have a set of eight-month-old twins, a boy and a girl.”

“I’d heard he was some hotshot doctor but didn’t know about the twins.”

Charlotte grinned proudly. “Yep, I’m a grandma—finally. But listen, I know Hank would love to see you. Give him a call, why don’t you? But that’s enough about Hank for now. I want to know all about you.”

“Well, I’m no doctor, that’s for sure. But I did finally graduate from high school, even if it was by the skin of my teeth. And by the way, that’s another thing I have you to thank for. All those lectures you gave me about not letting my circumstances dictate my future sank in.”

Again, Charlotte choked up. Unable to look him in the eye, she lowered her gaze to stare at her plate of untouched food. She had wanted to help Benny, had tried to help him for a while, but the influence of his background and his sordidly dysfunctional family had been more than she was prepared to handle. With the exception of Benny, most of his family were alcoholics and drug addicts—people willing to sell their own son, along with their souls, for their next fix. It had all come to a head the day that Benny’s mother showed up on her doorstep and demanded to know why Benny hadn’t made the “drop” earlier that day. Charlotte had ended up having to threaten the drugged-up woman with the police to get her to leave. Even now, so many years later, she still felt guilty over that period of her life and the choices she’d made concerning Benny.

“Now, Miss Charlotte.” Benny reached out and patted her hand. “I know that look. Don’t you go feeling all guilty about none of that stuff. That’s in the past. I don’t blame you for running my butt off. Oh, I’ll admit that I was plenty hot about it way back then, but not anymore. I lead a different kind of life now.”