Maid for Murder (13 page)
Authors: Barbara Colley
Charlotte knew when she was beaten, knew when to give in. “In that case”—she turned and picked up the dishes she’d set on the table—“I’ll just put these in the dishwasher, then I’ll go ahead and clean your bedroom. That way I won’t have to disturb you when you do decide to rest.”
A few minutes later, when Charlotte entered the master suite, one quick glance around the room told her that cleaning it wouldn’t take long. In comparison to Anna-Maria’s room, the suite was inordinately neat. In fact, except for one of Jackson’s shirts tossed carelessly across the foot of the bed and a pair of his shoes on the floor near the dresser, the room looked almost exactly the same as she’d left it after cleaning on Friday, as if no one had occupied the room since then.
“Now that’s strange,” she murmured, gazing at the king-sized bed.
Only one side of the bed had been slept in. The left side. Jackson’s side. Charlotte knew it was Jackson’s side because it was next to the alarm clock, and she’d once overheard Jeanne talking and laughing with Anna-Maria about how Jackson insisted on sleeping next to the alarm clock, since she had a bad habit of turning it off instead of hitting the snooze button.
The other side of the bed, Jeanne’s side, was unused. The comforter was still smooth and in place, as were the pillow shams and throw pillows.
So where had Jeanne slept?
She could understand that after Jackson’s murder it might have been too painful for Jeanne to sleep in the same bed that she’d shared with her husband. Even now, some forty-odd years later, Charlotte still couldn’t pass the Pontchartrain Hotel without having qualms.
The one and only time she’d ever slept with Hank’s father had been in that hotel. Unlike Jeanne, she didn’t know what it was like to sleep with a man for almost a lifetime or even have a husband. And though she’d never regretted that one night of indiscretion for a moment, nor had she regretted the results of that night, just looking at the place conjured up painful memories of what could have been ... what should have been, if not for a foolish war.
For years after his death, she’d fantasized about how her life might have been if he’d lived. In her dreams, she’d pictured a perfect marriage, one patterned after that of her own parents, one of a loving, caring couple with the same aims and goals. Only as she’d grown older had she come to realize that reality and fantasies rarely meshed. Her parents’ marriage had been the rare exception to the rule, from what she’d seen.
Just because one person loved another didn’t mean they were necessarily suited to marriage. Her son had loved his ex-wife; her sister had claimed to love both of her ex-husbands. And just because a couple were wealthy and socially compatible didn’t guarantee everlasting happiness or harmony, not if Clarice and Jeanne’s marriages were gauges to measure by.
Charlotte sighed deeply and shook her head in an attempt to shake loose the grip of her painful past. Wondering or even speculating whether she and Hank senior would have had a successful marriage was a waste of time and energy. She’d do better to concentrate on the present instead of the past.
Charlotte stared at the bed. So where had Jeanne slept Friday and Saturday? Why hadn’t she slept with her husband?
“And why are you standing around daydreaming when there’s work to be done,” she muttered. When and where Jeanne slept, or even with whom she slept, was none of her business.
Even though nothing was really dusty, Charlotte dusted and polished all of the furniture surfaces, anyway, then moved on into the bathroom. There she emptied the wastebasket into a plastic garbage bag first, then cleaned the vanity mirror. Next, she wiped down the marble sink and countertop. After she’d scrubbed and disinfected the toilet, she did the same to the bathtub.
Her last chore was to clean the tiled shower. But when she pulled the bottle of tile cleaner from her supply carrier, she groaned, realizing it was almost empty.
Thanks to her restless night and having overslept, she hadn’t bothered to check on the cleaners in the supplier carrier, as she normally would have.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Just wonderful.” Now she’d have to waste time on a trip out to the van to refill the bottle. Ordinarily, a trip to the van wouldn’t have bothered her, but because of all of the reporters, now she had to walk clear over to the next block. With a firm grip on the empty container and dark thoughts about the news media in general, she stomped out of the bathroom.
As Charlotte approached the door leading into Clarice’s rooms, she suddenly stiffened when she heard the raised voices coming from inside. Since the door was half-open, she slowed her steps to a halt just past the opening.
Jeanne and Clarice were at it again.
“You have to, Mother!” Jeanne insisted, an edge of desperation in her tone. “You have to go.”
“I don’t want to, and besides, you know I can’t get up and down the stairs,” Clarice whined.
Charlotte frowned as she recalled scrubbing up the scuff marks on the tile in Clarice’s bathroom, then scrubbing up the ones that looked exactly the same on the stairs.
“That’s bull, and you know it,” Jeanne retorted. “I’ll get Max to help you down the stairs, just like he does each and every month for your doctor’s visit. Besides, what will everyone think if you don’t show up for your own son-in-law’s funeral?”
“What will everyone think?” Clarice’s indignant voice was a high-pitched squeal. “Since when do you care what everyone thinks?”
“Mother, please, don’t start that again. Not now. You have to go, and that’s all there is to it.”
“For your information, missy, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I didn’t like that two-timing gigolo while he was alive, and unlike some people,” she said, sarcasm dripping with each word, “I refuse to be a hypocrite and pretend I’m grieving now that he’s dead.”
“So what about Anna-Maria? Don’t you even care what she thinks?”
Charlotte didn’t wait around for Clarice’s answer. She figured she’d already heard more than she should have heard. Even so, the harsh, angry words of the two women rang in her ears all the way down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door.
Clarice might insist she wasn’t grieving, might claim to have disliked Jackson, but if she wasn’t grieving, then what on earth was going on with her? Why had she declined to get out of bed, and why had she declined to eat the food brought to her?
Charlotte noticed a group of people huddled together just across the street from the back gate as she walked the half a block to her van. Were they reporters, or were they simply gawkers wanting to get a look at the murdered man’s house? From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell.
Probably gawkers, she thought with disgust as she unlocked the van and climbed inside. Of course, they could simply be one of the many guided walking tours that roamed the city. Tourists were always wandering around through the Garden District.
Charlotte set about refilling the bottle of tile cleaner, then climbed out of the van. She was locking the door when she saw a man break free from the group and stride purposefully toward her.
“Hey!” he called out. “Hey, lady, can I talk to you a minute?”
Something about the slim but powerfully built man set off warning bells, and Charlotte always heeded warning bells. She firmly shook her head and walked briskly toward the back gate.
“Wait up, lady. I’m a reporter for the
Times-Picayune.
I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
Times-Picayune.
I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
Again Charlotte shook her head. “Go away. No one here is interested in answering any of your questions.” She picked up her pace, but she could still hear him behind her.
She was almost to the gate when he suddenly darted past her, stepped in front of her, and pivoted, blocking her path. “How long have you worked for the Dubuissons?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Go away.” She tried sidestepping to get around him, but he grabbed her supply carrier.
“Come on, lady. Just a couple of questions.”
Sudden anger shot through her. “Let go!” she demanded.
“Don’t you want your name in the paper?”
Charlotte glared at the man. Gripping the supply carrier with both hands, she shouted, “No! Now let go!” She yanked hard, and he lost his hold. She feigned to the right. Before he could regain his balance, she jerked back to the left and bolted through the gate opening.
Charlotte knew that the gate would automatically lock once it was pulled into place, and she quickly slammed it shut.
With the locked gate between her and the man, she still didn’t breathe easy until she reached the steps leading to the deck.
“Aw, come on, lady,” he called out.
His hands clutched the cast-iron bars on the other side, giving him the appearance of being behind the bars of a jail. “Give me a break here. All I wanted was to ask a couple of questions.”
“Go away,” she yelled, “or I’m calling the police.” With one last, wary look at the reporter, she hurried across the deck. Once inside the house, she shoved the door shut and locked it, but her heart was still racing.
“Charlotte?”
The abrupt sound of Jeanne’s voice gave her a start. Charlotte whirled around to see the younger woman standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“What’s going on? Did I hear voices outside?”
Still so angry that she could hardly talk, Charlotte nodded as she shoved away from the door. “Just an obnoxious reporter,” she told her, “looking for a story.”
A haunted expression came over Jeanne’s face. “Aren’t they all?” Her voice quivered, and if possible, she suddenly looked even more exhausted than she had earlier.
“Now, don’t you worry one minute about that man out there,” Charlotte told her, her protective instincts flaring. “I’ll fix his wagon good. I’ll call my niece—”
I’d just as soon you didn’t tell Mrs. Dubuisson that we’re related....
“The police,” Charlotte quickly interjected to cover the slip. “If he doesn’t go away soon, I’ll call the police—or just as good, I’ll call a friend of mine who’s a managing editor with the
Picayune.
” Making a mental note to phone Mary Johnson to complain about the reporter, she motioned toward the general direction of the foyer. “You go on back upstairs now. Go to your room and take a nap. Turn the ringer off the phone,” she added, “and I’ll answer it if anyone calls and take messages for you down here.”
Picayune.
” Making a mental note to phone Mary Johnson to complain about the reporter, she motioned toward the general direction of the foyer. “You go on back upstairs now. Go to your room and take a nap. Turn the ringer off the phone,” she added, “and I’ll answer it if anyone calls and take messages for you down here.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Jeanne said. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. It’s like I’m too tired now, if that makes any sense.”
Charlotte nodded. “That happens sometimes. What about something to help you sleep? Doesn’t Miss Clarice have a prescription for something like that?”
Jean wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Yes, I’m sure she does, but—”
“Normally, I wouldn’t suggest that anyone take someone else’s prescription drugs,” Charlotte hastened to add, “but I’m sure that whatever Miss Clarice is taking would be mild enough and safe enough for you to take, too.”
The younger woman nodded. “I’ve taken sleeping pills before, so that’s not really a concern.”
“Tell you what, then.” Charlotte moved closer to Jeanne. “Let’s get you tucked into bed and I’ll go ask Miss Clarice for one of those pills for you.” She placed her hand at the small of Jeanne’s back and urged her back through the dining room and into the foyer. That Jeanne willingly went along with her and didn’t argue or resist was telling. The woman was past exhaustion, inside and out.
It was only when they reached the door to the master suite and Jeanne hesitated that Charlotte had misgivings. Maybe she should have suggested that Jeanne sleep in the guest room or even on the sofa in the back parlor.
The guest room.
Of course. All the while, she’d been speculating as to where Jeanne had slept over the weekend, but since she hadn’t cleaned the guest room yet, she’d never once even considered the logical answer, that Jeanne had more than likely been staying in there.
“Ah, Jeanne, maybe you’d prefer to nap in the guest room instead?”
Jeanne slowly turned to face Charlotte, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How did you know?” she whispered.
Not exactly sure what the younger woman was asking, Charlotte simply shrugged. “I didn’t,” she hedged. “I just figured you might find it more—er, ah, comfortable, given the circumstances.”
Jeanne nodded. “You’re a very kind person, Charlotte LaRue. And yes, I think I would rest better in there.”
From that minute on, Charlotte was like an old mother hen hovering over a baby chick as she urged Jeanne toward the room across the hall. “You go in and get undressed, and I’ll bring you in a gown.”
When Charlotte returned with one of the long-sleeved silky gowns and matching robe that Jeanne preferred, she glanced around the spacious room while the younger woman changed. The bed was rumpled, as if it had been hastily made up, a couple of slacks and blouses were draped across one of the overstuffed lounge chairs, and cosmetics littered the dresser top, all evidence that Jeanne had indeed taken up residence in the room.
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