Authors: Barbara Colley
Polished Off (4 page)
About what?
Charlotte wondered, as she headed for the driver’s side of the van.
Charlotte wondered, as she headed for the driver’s side of the van.
Louis slammed the rear van door shut, then walked around to where Charlotte was standing. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Charlotte frowned. “Congratulations?”
“Yeah, I ran into Judith the other day, and she told me about her brother getting married to that employee of yours who has the little boy.”
“Nadia’s her name, and thanks.” Ever conscious of the time, Charlotte glanced at her watch. “Was that what you needed to talk to me about?”
“No. I—”
“Then, I don’t mean to be rude, but can we talk later? I’m already late as it is. Of course, if it’s urgent,” she added. “Or really important...”
“I thought you didn’t work on Thursdays.”
“Depends on your definition of work,” she retorted defensively.
“Aw, come on, Charlotte, you know what I mean.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes—yes, I do. Sorry. Guess I’m a bit touchy this morning. One of my maids called in sick at the last minute, and since I couldn’t get a replacement, I have to take her place. Like I said, I’m already late, so I really do need to leave now.”
“Sure, no problem.” Louis opened the door for her. “What I need to talk about can wait. How about I cook dinner for you?”
“Ah—dinner?” Though she was taken aback by his abrupt change of subject, she climbed into the van.
Talking was one thing, but dinner?
The idea of a man cooking for her had taken some getting used to, not that Louis had cooked for her that many times. But ever since he’d kissed her on her birthday back in October, their relationship had been a bit strained and had taken a subtle change of direction.
That he hadn’t kissed her since that night nor had he even acted like he might want to do so had contributed to the uneasiness she felt when around him. The whole situation bothered her and confused her so much so that she no longer knew how to act when she was around him.
She knew she was being a coward, but, unlike her niece’s generation, which was forward and open about such matters, she simply couldn’t get past her upbringing to work up the courage to approach the subject or discuss the issue with him. The women of her generation had been raised to believe that the man should be the aggressor and that only trashy women made the first move. Of course, that was all hogwash, and if she was honest with herself she’d admit that the real reason she couldn’t just come right out and confront him was because she still wasn’t sure how she felt about him.
At times she truly liked Louis—liked him a lot. And she respected him. But there were other times when his chauvinistic attitude and know-it-all ways irritated her no end.
Louis shut the driver’s door. Then he tapped on the window. “Well?” he mouthed. “How about it?”
Charlotte rolled down the window. “Ah—I...”
Now be gracious, Charlotte. Mind your manners.
“Sure.” She forced a smile. “Why not? That’s very nice of you,” she hastened to add.
Now be gracious, Charlotte. Mind your manners.
“Sure.” She forced a smile. “Why not? That’s very nice of you,” she hastened to add.
Louis nodded. “Good. Supper will be ready around six.” He pointed to the seat belt. “Don’t forget to buckle up.”
Charlotte’s home was located on Milan Street, just outside the Garden District. The family mansion that Patsy Dufour had inherited was located on Prytania Street and was reputed to be one of the oldest homes in the Garden District, if not the oldest.
Traffic was light on Prytania, and the drive to Patsy’s house took less than ten minutes, not near enough time for Charlotte to sort out her confused feelings about Louis or his dinner invitation. To do that might take a lifetime, and Charlotte figured that with the advent of her sixtieth birthday back in October, more than half of her lifetime was already over—unless some scientist somewhere discovered a way to stop the aging process right away, which wasn’t likely.
Patsy Dufour’s raised cottage-style home had seen many modifications during its hundred and sixty years of existence. The one-story house was raised above ground on brick piers, forming what was called a basement by the locals who lived in the below-sea-level city of New Orleans. Each new addition to the home had changed it over the years; a whole wing of rooms had been added along one side as well as galleries.
The house had been in Patsy’s family for generations, and it, along with the furnishings and the grounds surrounding the house, were her pride and joy.
Years ago, when Patsy had first inherited the old house, it had been designated as a national historic landmark by the Department of the Interior. Ever since, Patsy had become a connoisseur of historical correctness as well as an avid gardener, and for most of Patsy’s adult life she’d totally devoted herself to the upkeep and historical integrity of the house and its grounds.
Located on one of the largest lots in the Garden District, the Dufour home was surrounded by a white picket fence. On the inside of the fence there was a thick wall of various tropical plants, so thick that the house was almost hidden from the prying eyes of the many tourist tours that roamed the Garden District.
The first thing that Charlotte noted when she approached the house were the trucks parked along the curb. At least once a year Patsy did a major landscaping project, and, judging from the equipment and various plants in the truck beds, she was at it again.
Patsy was extremely paranoid about security, but to Charlotte’s surprise, the main entrance gate was unlocked.
Once Charlotte had unloaded her supply carrier, she locked the van and climbed the steps leading up to the front gallery. At the door, she rang the doorbell and waited. She rang it again. When Patsy still didn’t answer, she left her supply carrier by the door and headed around to the side of the house to where stepping-stones formed a path to the back of the property.
The backyard was a beehive of activity. Men armed with shovels were scooping up the black dirt and loading it into wheelbarrows as fast as a noisy backhoe could dig it out of the ground. Even with all the noise and bustle, Charlotte spotted Patsy almost immediately. And in her arms was Missy, the little Pekingese that was Patsy’s constant companion.
Dressed in spotlessly clean lime green Capri pants and a matching short-sleeved sweater, Patsy was standing on the edge of the huge hole that was being dug out by the backhoe.
A divorcee in her early forties, Patsy lived alone except for Missy. Charlotte had always heard that pet owners sometimes resembled their pets, but she’d never really thought much about it until she’d met Patsy Dufour and Missy. She’d decided that in Patsy’s case, it was true.
Though not an ugly woman, Patsy wasn’t exactly attractive, either. Like Missy, she was compact, with a heavy front and lighter hindquarters. The one real asset that Patsy possessed was her thick, dark hair. She wore it in a classic page-boy style, and it was streaked with a healthy sheen of auburn highlights.
The moment that Patsy spotted Charlotte, she flashed her a huge smile, then signaled to the man operating the backhoe to cut off the machine. Once the noisy machine shut down, Patsy walked briskly toward Charlotte.
Just like Patsy
, thought Charlotte.
Overseeing every little detail.
, thought Charlotte.
Overseeing every little detail.
“Hey there,” Patsy greeted her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Charlotte gave her a quick smile. “I guess that means you didn’t get my phone message. I’m taking Nadia’s place today. She’s ill with a nasty stomach virus.”
“Oh, that’s too bad—poor thing—and, no, I’m afraid I didn’t get the message.” She motioned toward the men. “But I’ve been so busy this morning that I haven’t checked for any messages. Here, let me show you.” Without waiting for a response, she promptly took Charlotte by the arm and pulled her toward the hole being dug.
“Just look at it. After almost a year of planning, my dream is coming true. I’m finally going to get my pond. Of course it won’t be as large as I had originally hoped for, but the design and landscaping will make up for what it lacks in size.
“Just as well,” she continued. “My next project will need lots of room.” The excitement in Patsy’s voice grew. “I’ve been studying the Rosedown gardens and would just love to duplicate some of what’s been done there—on a much smaller scale, of course,” she added. “But what I’d really love is to get my hands on some of those heritage plants growing there. And what I wouldn’t give to have copies of Martha Turnbull’s diaries....” Her voice trailed away.
Smaller scale indeed
, Charlotte thought, vaguely recalling an article she’d read in the
Times-Picayune
about the attempt to renovate the gardens of the St. Francisville plantation. What she remembered most about the article was the scope of the project. The original gardens were begun in the 1830s by Rosedown founder Martha Turnbull, and there were no less than twenty-eight acres of gardens that would take years to restore to their original splendor.
, Charlotte thought, vaguely recalling an article she’d read in the
Times-Picayune
about the attempt to renovate the gardens of the St. Francisville plantation. What she remembered most about the article was the scope of the project. The original gardens were begun in the 1830s by Rosedown founder Martha Turnbull, and there were no less than twenty-eight acres of gardens that would take years to restore to their original splendor.
After a moment, Patsy shrugged. “Oh, well. For now I’ll just have to make do with my pond. At least I’ll finally have a place to showcase my collection.”
For as long as Charlotte had known Patsy, the younger woman had been obsessed with acquiring artifacts, Italian marble statues that were patinated with age, and urns of various shapes and sizes, all mostly antique.
“By this time tomorrow,” Patsy continued, “the pond should be finished and the men can start placing everything. I can hardly wait,” she added, excitement crackling in her voice.
Though Charlotte didn’t quite understand Patsy’s obsession with a bunch of old statues and urns, nor did she understand her excitement over a hole being dug in her backyard, one that would no doubt attract even more mosquitos than normal, she found herself smiling at the younger woman’s enthusiasm.
“I’m sure it will be just lovely when it’s finished,” she told Patsy. “Now, if you’ll let me in the front door, I’ll get to work.”
Like most of the homes that belonged to Charlotte’s clients, Patsy’s was never really messy or terribly dirty. Besides dusting and cleaning the ceiling fans, Charlotte’s work consisted mostly of dusting furniture, polishing it, vacuuming up the dog hair, changing the bed linens, and cleaning the kitchen and the bathrooms.
By two that afternoon, Charlotte had finished everything except for making up Patsy’s huge four-poster bed. She’d even been able to dust and clean the ceiling fans without much trouble. Just as she’d thought, Patsy still had a ladder stored in the pantry closet. Since it was taller than she’d remembered and more sturdy than the aluminum one she’d brought with her, the height of the ceiling fans hadn’t really been a problem after all.
Charlotte had just smoothed out the comforter on top of the bed when her cell phone buzzed. Almost the second that she switched on the phone, and without waiting for even so much as a hello, Madeline launched into a tirade.
“You’ve got to do something about Nadia, Charlotte!”
“Guess this means you’re speaking to me again.”
Madeline ignored Charlotte’s jeer. “She’s nothing but white trash, Charlotte, and the girl has the manners of a goat.”
“Shame on you! Nadia is not—”
But Madeline didn’t give Charlotte a chance to finish. “Do you know what she’s done?” she wailed. Without waiting for an answer, she raved on. “She’s canceled on me. The very nerve! And to think that I’d decided to give her a chance—for Daniel’s sake. Here I’d arranged this lovely high tea at the Windsor Hotel for this afternoon and invited my boss and some of my friends to meet her. And now she’s gone and canceled—just like that—an hour before our reservation, saying she’s ill. I tell you, breeding shows through every time. I knew from the—”
“Madeline! Nadia is ill. She’s—”
“Yeah, right. Sure she is. She’s just still in a snit because I wasn’t bowled over by their stupid announcement on Sunday, and it’s her little way of getting back at me.”
“That’s absolutely not true,” Charlotte argued. “In the first place, she’s not like that. She doesn’t play those kinds of games. And in the second place, she has a stomach virus.”
“Yeah, and I’m the queen of Mardi Gras. Can’t you see it? Not only has she pulled a fast one on my son, but she’s got you hoodwinked, too!”
“Madeline, stop it!” Charlotte shouted, no longer able to keep a rein on her rising temper.
“Don’t you dare ‘Madeline’ me,” her sister shouted right back. “I should have known better than to call you—should have known that you’d take
her
side against your own sister. You’ve never supported anything I did. Why—”
her
side against your own sister. You’ve never supported anything I did. Why—”
Charlotte’s temper snapped. When Madeline was in the throes of one of her hissy fits, there was no talking to her, no reasoning with her at all. Charlotte jerked the phone away from her ear and with one click disconnected the call. With her hand shaking almost uncontrollably, she turned the phone off.
For several long seconds, all she could do was stare at the floor while she tried to calm down. But not even breathing deeply and counting to ten helped this time.
“Spoiled,” she muttered. “And selfish to the bone.”
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