Death Tidies Up (11 page)

Though Charlotte was Protestant, Hank's father had been Catholic. For years Charlotte had honored his memory by attending the special All Saints' Day services held at the cemetery where his remains had been buried.

“If Mother wants to go this year, I'll take her.”

Charlotte gave her son a grateful look, and he, in turn, gave her a knowing smile.

“Better you than me,” Madeline quipped. “Those places give me the creeps. It's still hard to believe that people used to go there at night and do those weird rituals and stuff.”

“They weren't weird,” Charlotte argued. “Lighted candles were blessed by the priests, then placed on the tombs, and a mass was held. The priests performed what they call the ancient rites for the souls of the departed.”

Madeline shuddered. “I don't care what they called it.” She shuddered again. “No way would you ever catch me there after dark.”

Sensing that a change of subject was needed, Daniel turned to Davy. “Davy and I are going trick-or-treating this year for Halloween, aren't we, big guy?”

 

Since Charlotte had a couple of errands to run after she left Madeline's house, it was late that afternoon before she finally returned home. Waiting for her was a fractious Sweety Boy and several messages on her answering machine.

“I know, I know, Boy,” she told the little parakeet as she opened the cage door. “You're tired of being penned up in there, aren't you, fellow?”

His answer was a squawk as he scurried through the open cage door and spent several minutes flying back and forth from one corner of the room to the other. When he finally settled on top of the cuckoo clock, Charlotte walked over to the desk and hit the play button of the answering machine.

The first message was from Bitsy, and Charlotte sighed.

“My goodness, Charlotte, where are you?” the old lady said reprovingly. “I didn't hear about Drew Bergeron until this morning at church, what with Jenny's being here and all. And by the way, Jenny and I had a lovely visit. But I'll tell you all about it when you come on Tuesday.” Bitsy paused a moment, then said, “You
are
coming on Tuesday, aren't you? Someone said that you were the one who found poor Drew dead and that when you found him, you fainted. What a dreadful experience. I do hope you're okay.”

“Oh, great!” Charlotte exclaimed as Bitsy paused again. Already the rumors were circulating. Inaccurate rumors to boot.

“Well—anyway,” Bitsy continued. “Give me a call as soon as you get home.”

“Not likely,” Charlotte muttered as the message ended and the beep sounded.

The machine beeped again, and the next message began.

“Ms. LaRue. Vince Roussel here. Just calling to tell you that I'll be in touch as to when your crew can finish up at the Devilier house. The police are dragging their feet, though, and I doubt you can get back in there before next weekend.”

The brief, but curt message reminded Charlotte of what Louis and Judith had told her about Vince Roussel and his son, and it left her with an uneasy feeling as well as a sense of urgency. The sooner she talked to Cheré, the better, she thought.

“Speak of the devil,” Charlotte murmured when the machine beeped and she recognized Cheré's voice as her last caller.

“Just checking up on you, Charlotte, to see how you're feeling today. Give me a call if you have time.”

Long after the message ended, Charlotte continued staring at the machine. Even though she had already decided to talk to Cheré about Todd Roussel, the thought of interfering in her employee's personal life left a bad taste in her mouth.

From the beginning, she'd always made it a rule to mind her own business when it came to employees or clients. Unless an employee sought out her help or asked for advice, as Nadia had done, Charlotte never interfered in their personal lives. More times than not, and knowing human nature, uninvited meddling just caused hard feelings and resentment.

But if Louis and Judith were right…if the Roussels were mixed up with the mob…

Suddenly another thought hit her. What was it that Louis had said about some kind of business dealings between Vince Roussel and Drew Bergeron? Something about a real estate deal that had gone sour, if she remembered right.

Charlotte frowned, deep in thought. But there was something else that Louis had said about Vince Roussell too. Something—Then she remembered.

We'd found this lowlife's body floating in the river…we figured he'd crossed Roussel, and Roussel killed him.

As Louis' words played through her mind, Charlotte's knees grew weak, and she stumbled to the sofa. It was obvious that Louis thought that Vince Roussel was capable of murder, and if that was true, then…

Charlotte shivered. Was it possible? Could Vince Roussel have murdered Drew Bergeron?

T
he sky was overcast and dreary, and the air was once again heavy with humidity by Monday morning, none of which helped the depressed mood that threatened to overwhelm Charlotte as she locked her house and climbed into her van. Already, she felt as if she'd put in a full day's work, and for the first time in a long time, she wished she could simply stay home and climb back into bed.

Within reason, Charlotte knew that her lethargy and depressed mood were simply the results of lack of sleep after a restless night of tossing and turning due to worry.

After much soul searching, she had finally placed a call to Cheré before she'd gone to bed the night before. But Cheré wasn't home, and Charlotte had been forced to leave a message on the young woman's answering machine. Charlotte's message had been short and to the point. She'd simply told Cheré that she needed to see her right away. Then, Charlotte had suggested that Monday around five would be a good time if Cheré could drop by her house.

To make matters worse, along with worrying about Cheré, no matter how hard she'd tried, she kept thinking about Drew Bergeron. Recurring visions of how he'd looked, all slumped over and wearing nothing much more than that silly feathered mask, kept haunting her.

But underlying all of her other worries were the nagging thoughts about her health…the tiredness she'd felt lately, the forgetfulness, and the fainting spell. Each symptom could be excused or explained away individually, but all of them together…

“Stop it,” she muttered as she turned the van down the street where Marian lived. “Just stop it right now.”

Hank had set her up with an appointment to see a colleague of his on Tuesday afternoon, she reminded herself again. Until then, there was no use in even speculating about it, just as there was no reason to speculate about Drew Bergeron's death. How or why he had been murdered was none of her concern. As for Cheré, she would have her talk with her that afternoon, but ultimately, the young woman would have to decide for herself what was best.

Firmly shoving the thoughts aside, Charlotte pulled in front of Marian's house and parked. From the back of the van, she gathered her cleaning supplies along with two of the candles that she'd bought after leaving her sister's house the day before.

All the talk about All Saints' Day and candles had started her thinking. There were all types of scented candles now that were designed to alter moods. Maybe there was one she could get for Marian, one that might help calm her. Since she'd been on Magazine Street anyway, she'd decided to stop in at one of the specialty shops and check it out.

While in the shop, she had noticed a display that was devoted solely to aromatherapy. There were also brochures explaining the theory behind mood-altering scents. When she'd read how the scent of lavender had the power to soothe, she'd immediately purchased several lavender-scented candles.

“Should have used the candles myself,” she muttered as she locked the van.

Within mere seconds of ringing Marian's doorbell, the front door swung open. One look at Marian, and Charlotte figured the poor woman needed more than a few candles to calm her down.

Once again she was still in her nightgown and robe, but unlike on Friday, today there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair was tangled and in dire need of a good shampooing. But it was the wild look in Marian's eyes that disturbed Charlotte the most.

“Oh, Charlotte, come in, come in. I've been waiting for you.”

Despite the distance between them, Charlotte wrinkled her nose when she caught a distinct whiff of alcohol. “Where are the boys?”

“Is it true?” Marian asked breathlessly, her eyes glittering with some emotion that Charlotte couldn't readily identify. “Did you really find Drew Bergeron's body at the Devilier house?”

Charlotte felt like groaning out loud as she stepped past Marian into the entrance hall.

“The story was splattered all over the front page of the
Picayune
yesterday,” Marian continued without waiting for a response. “But even before the story came out in the paper, I heard about it from Sam. He said he heard about it Saturday afternoon at the Rink when he stopped in for a cup of coffee.

“If you ask me,” Marian rushed on, “the S.O.B. got exactly what he deserved. But then, that's exactly what I thought two years ago after his so-called plane crash.

“Well?” Marian grabbed Charlotte's arm. “Is it true? Were you the one who found him? Please tell me you were and that he truly is dead this time.”

Charlotte was taken aback by Marian's vehemence. But she was equally disturbed that her name was being connected with all of the gossip flying around—not to mention the clawlike grip Marian had on her arm.

Charlotte gently patted Marian's hand. Then, under the pretense of setting down the supply carrier, she eased back a step to free herself from Marian's grasp. Once she'd set her supplies down on the floor, she finally replied to Marian's question. “I was in the house when Drew's body was discovered. But
I
didn't find him,” she avowed. “Rest assured, though, the body was definitely identified as Drew Bergeron.”

Since that was all she intended to say about the matter, Charlotte tried to change the subject.

“How's Aaron feeling? What did the doctor have to say about him?”

“Aaron's fine—nothing but a virus.” Marian dismissed the subject of her son's illness with an impatient wave of her hand. “So if you didn't find Drew, then who—”

“And B.J.'s okay too?” Charlotte interrupted, determined to change the subject. “He didn't come down with the virus?”

“No!” Marian glared at her. “Aaron's just fine,” she snapped. “B.J.'s just fine.
I'm
just fine. Now, who—”

At that moment the phone rang, interrupting further discussion, to Charlotte's vast relief.

With a look of frustration, Marian spun away, marched to the extension, and jerked up the receiver.

Charlotte fully intended taking advantage of the phone call to make herself scarce. After all, she'd come there to work, not to gossip about Drew Bergeron. But a sudden gasp from Marian stopped her in her tracks.

“He's been what?” Marian sputtered. As Marian listened to the reply, she paled and leaned heavily against the wall. “For fighting?” she whispered. “Fighting with who?” Several moments passed before Marian finally said, “Yes, of course I understand. I can come pick him up within the hour.”

When Marian finally hung up the receiver, she pushed away from the wall and turned to face Charlotte. “That was B.J.'s school,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “He's been suspended for—for fighting, an—and I have to go get him.”

“Oh, hon, I'm so sorry.” Charlotte rushed over to her and wrapped her arm around the younger woman's shoulders. “I just can't believe that B.J. was fighting. Surely there's been a mistake of some kind.”

Marian gave a one-shouldered shrug and swiped at the tears that had spilled over onto her cheeks. “I don't find anything hard to believe anymore. But th-thanks, Charlotte.” She pulled away from Charlotte's embrace. “Thanks anyway. Guess I'd better go get dressed.”

As Charlotte watched Marian walk away, her head down, her steps dragging as if she were wading through ankle-deep mud, her heart went out to the younger woman and to B.J. as well.

From all indications, the boy was well on his way to trouble with a capital T, and Marian, poor thing, was well on her way to the breaking point.

With a sigh, Charlotte picked up her supply carrier. “Such a shame,” she murmured. “A crying shame.”

Almost half an hour passed before Marian came looking for Charlotte to let her know she was leaving. Though makeup had been artfully applied to cover the dark circles beneath Marian's eyes, and she had twisted her hair up and secured it into a presentable French roll, nothing could disguise the worried, defeated look in her eyes.

“If the phone rings, just let the machine pick up the calls,” she told Charlotte. “I don't have any appointments this morning, but if anyone does drop by, I should be back within the hour.”

Once Marian left, Charlotte strategically placed the two candles she'd brought with her and lit them—one in Marian's office, and one in the kitchen-living area—in hopes that the soothing scent would have time to permeate those portions of the house by the time Marian returned. Then she focused on the task of cleaning the stove.

If possible, the kitchen was in worse shape than she had found it in on Friday. Not only was the cooktop of the stove splattered and caked with what appeared to be dried spaghetti sauce, but something had boiled over and congealed in one of the drip plates.

The stove was all-electric, so it was simple enough to disassemble it. Since all four of the drip plates needed a good cleaning anyway, Charlotte filled the sink with hot, sudsy water and let them soak while she scrubbed the cooktop.

After she'd thoroughly scrubbed the stovetop, she liberally applied an appliance wax, a thick, creamy liquid that when rubbed off and polished would leave the whole stove glowing and would help make subsequent cleanups easier.

Charlotte had just begun wiping away the wax when a loud crash broke the silence. “What on earth,” she cried as she jerked her head around to stare toward the dining room.

Dropping the towel she'd been using onto the cabinet, she hurried toward the dining room.

The dining room was at the front of the house, and a large double window overlooked the porch and the street. The first thing she spotted was a small pile of lumber on the porch, lumber that hadn't been there when she'd arrived earlier. Beyond the porch was a battered white truck parked behind her van.

“Of course,” she murmured, immediately recognizing the truck. It was only Sam making all the racket. From the looks of the planks, he'd brought in the load of lumber to do some repairs, probably to the porch, she decided, eyeing two cans of paint sitting beside the lumber. The last few times she'd swept it, she'd noticed that there were some rotting boards that needed replacing.

But where was he? Craning her head, she scanned the front yard. When she finally spotted him, he was coming around the corner of the house, headed back toward his truck.

She watched for a moment more until she saw him heave a large toolbox from the bed of the truck. Her curiosity satisfied, she returned to the kitchen.

As she finished cleaning the stove and the rest of the kitchen, she was able to trace Sam's progress through the sounds she heard coming from the porch…the creaking of boards being pried loose, the whine of an electric saw, followed finally by the banging of a hammer.

 

Charlotte had finally finished in the kitchen and living area and was dusting and waxing the tables in the hallway when she heard the rattle of the back door screen, then the groan of the back door being opened.

“Charlotte!” Marian called out. “It's just us.”

When Charlotte walked into the kitchen, Marian was unloading small boxes of food from a sack onto the kitchen counter. Her mouth watered at the smell of fried chicken wafting from the boxes. But when she glanced to her left and saw B.J. perched on one of the bar stools at the island that separated the kitchen from the living area, all thoughts of food were forgotten.

He gave her a sullen look. The white knit shirt he wore was filthy and spotted with what she could only guess was dried blood. But it was his bruised and puffy face, along with the large bandage he was sporting just above his swollen right eye, that made her wince with sympathetic pain.

Marian glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, hey, Charlotte. I see that Sam started on the porch. Did anyone call or drop by?”

Charlotte dragged her gaze away from B.J. and shook her head. “No calls, no visitors,” she answered.

“That's good,” Marian continued, “because things took a bit longer than I expected.” She motioned toward her son. “As you can see, B.J. had a nasty cut, so we had to make a side trip by the doctor's office. Had to wait an eternity, but thank goodness he only needed a couple of stitches.” She pointed to the boxes on the cabinet. “Since it's so close to lunchtime, I went ahead and picked up some Popeye's chicken. You're welcome to join us if you'd like.”

“Thanks,” Charlotte told her. “I'm really tempted, but I've put on a couple of pounds, so I guess I'd better stick to the salad I brought.”

Then, placing her hands on her hips, Charlotte abruptly turned her attention back to B.J. “Well, young man,” she said. “I certainly hope the other guy looks at least as bad as you do.”

“Don't encourage him, Charlotte,” Marian warned. “He's in enough trouble as it is.”

“Believe me, encouraging him to fight is the last thing I'd do. Well?” she addressed B.J. again. “Does he? Does he look as bad as you do? Did
he
have to get stitches?”

When B.J. finally shook his head, Charlotte leveled a stern, narrow-eyed look at him. “Then what was the point?”

“He started it,” the teenager blurted out defensively.

“And you finished it by getting yourself beat up. Like I said before, what was the point?” She let him mull it over a moment. Then, with a sympathetic smile on her face, she moved closer. “You know sometimes it takes more courage just to walk away than to fight,” she said gently. “Fighting doesn't always solve the problem, and knowing when to fight and when to walk away is one of the real differences between being a boy and being a man.”

Charlotte didn't kid herself that B.J. would necessarily take her advice or even listen to her homegrown philosophy. She could only hope that emphasizing the differences between being a man and a boy would make an impression, especially since she suspected that trying to be the man of the family was one of B.J.'s problems. She'd raised a son and the signs were all there. She also knew that sometimes just planting a small seed of wisdom did a lot more good than an all-out lecture.