Authors: Barbara Colley
Polished Off (6 page)
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.
.
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.
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 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 comer 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.
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 modem 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 aboveground 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 weigh 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.
Chapter Four
T
otally unnerved by Patsy’s screams and unable to pull her gaze from the bones, Charlotte couldn’t move at first. Only when she realized that no one else was moving either and Patsy had yet to stop screaming did she decide that someone had to do something.
otally unnerved by Patsy’s screams and unable to pull her gaze from the bones, Charlotte couldn’t move at first. Only when she realized that no one else was moving either and Patsy had yet to stop screaming did she decide that someone had to do something.
Charlotte rushed over to Patsy. “It’s okay.” She pulled Patsy even farther away from the gruesome sight and placed herself squarely between Patsy and the urn. Keeping a firm hold on Patsy, she barked out instructions over her shoulder for the men. “Hey, one of you go call the police.”
Both men were pale and seemed to be as mesmerized by the sight of the bones as Charlotte had been. Neither of them moved, nor did they show any indication that they had heard her. And no wonder, Charlotte thought, what with Patsy still screaming like a banshee.
Charlotte turned to Patsy, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook as hard as she could. “Stop it! Stop that screaming right now, or I—I’ll slap the fool out of you.”
Patsy stopped screaming, but the moaning sounds she began making were almost as bad.
With a moan of her own, Charlotte turned back to the men. “Hey, you!” she yelled. “Snap out of it! Get a grip! I need some help here!”
As if coming out of a trance, the larger of the two men blinked, shook his head, and finally looked her way.
“Go into the kitchen and call the police,” Charlotte told him crossly. “And you”—she motioned at the other man “don’t touch anything else. Just leave it.”
Getting Patsy into the house proved to be more of a problem than Charlotte expected. Sobbing and close to hysterics, Patsy didn’t seem to hear anything Charlotte said to her, and all of Charlotte’s attempts to calm her were useless.
But finally Charlotte had had enough. She signaled to the remaining worker. “I need some help here. I’d like to get her inside before the police come.” When he just stared at her and didn’t move, Charlotte felt like screaming herself. “Now!” she shouted. “I need help now!”
With the reluctant worker on one side of Patsy and Charlotte on the other side of her, they were able to force her to go inside the house. Once inside, they again had to force her to sit on the sofa.
“Thanks,” Charlotte told the worker. “And just one more favor, please. Would you go out front and wait for the police? And when they get here, show them around back to the urn.”
After the worker left, Charlotte hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water. If she could just get Patsy to drink something, maybe the poor woman would stop that horrible moaning and crying.
When Charlotte returned, Patsy had stopped the moaning only to take up babbling. She was staring straight ahead as she rocked back and forth on the sofa.
“Should have known better,” she kept muttering. “If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.” She began shaking her head from side to side. “Too good to be true ... too good to be true ... no wonder that thing was so cheap... no wonder he sold it to me. But why? Why me? Why me?”
Half of what Patsy said didn’t make a lick of sense to Charlotte, but after a bit of coaxing, she was able to get Patsy to drink some of the water. The moment she stopped drinking, though, she started babbling again, and Charlotte began to really get worried.
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