Death Tidies Up (16 page)

After checking to make sure she had the necessary ingredients, Charlotte pulled out a package of chicken parts from the freezer. While the chicken boiled, she placed a call to Louis.

On the fourth ring, his answering machine picked up. Figuring he was probably asleep, she decided to leave a message.

“Louis, this is Charlotte. Judith told me you were ill, so I—”

“Yeah, Charlotte, I'm here,” he interrupted, his deep voice a hoarse croak. “Hold on a sec while I turn off the machine.”

“You sound terrible,” she told him a moment later. “Judith told me you've been ill. Have you seen a doctor?”

“It's just the flu.”

“So you haven't been to a doctor.”

“I don't
need
to see a doctor, Charlotte. It's just a light case.”

“Doesn't sound light to me—” Though she wanted to point out that someone his age could have all kinds of complications like pneumonia and dehydration, she thought better of it. No one liked to be reminded they were getting old. “Anyway,” she continued. “I'm cooking supper for you. I should have it ready in about an hour and I'll bring it over then.” Abruptly, Louis gave in to a fit of coughing, and Charlotte winced at the harsh, barking sound in her ear.

“Sorry about that,” he finally choked out. “I appreciate the food.” He cleared his throat. “But there's no use in you getting exposed and catching this stuff too, so just leave it outside the front door.”

“Well…” Charlotte hesitated. “I guess you're right. When it's ready, I'll just knock on the door to let you know it's there. But Louis, if you're not better in a couple of days, you really should consider seeing a doctor.” Before he could argue, she promptly hung up the receiver.

“Men!” she grumbled. As she glared at the phone, it abruptly rang, and Charlotte jumped at the sound. Taking a deep, calming breath, she finally answered it on the third ring.

“Maid-for-a-Day. Charlotte speaking.”

“Aunt Charley, one thing I forgot to mention.”

Charlotte frowned. What now?

“I'd just as soon my mother didn't know about my—er—relationship with Will right away—or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Anyone meaning your brother, I assume.”

“Daniel wouldn't understand either,” was Judith's reply.

Charlotte wanted badly to point out that if Judith was ashamed of her relationship, maybe she should get out of it. But she didn't. “You're a grown woman, hon,” she replied instead. “I don't approve, but what you do is your business.”

 

The Friday morning sky was overcast and gray, and the air was heavy with humidity, all of which conspired to make Charlotte's already morose mood even worse as she climbed into her van.

One last day, she thought, her stomach tightening with dread as she backed out of the driveway. Only one day left to be fifty-nine, then she'd be sixty…a whole other decade.

So far, none of her family had mentioned any type of birthday celebration, and while she really didn't want a lot of fuss and bother, a part of her feared that no one would even remember…or care.

The short trip to Marian's house was uneventful. For once she didn't encounter delays due to the ongoing battle of maintaining the sinking streets and aging sewer system. Nor were there any problems because of the downed tree limbs that she'd had to contend with the week before.

By the time she pulled alongside the curb of Marian's house and parked, she'd decided that whether anyone in her family remembered her birthday or not, she certainly wasn't going to remind them. And if they didn't remember, then she'd just spend a quiet night at home with a good book. And maybe she'd have a good cry while she was at it.

When Marian answered the door, Charlotte was glad to see that once again she was dressed, and she was equally glad that there was no telltale smell of alcohol on the younger woman's breath.

“I've got a house I'm showing this morning,” Marian told her at the door. “I should be back before noon.” She motioned for Charlotte to come inside. “And this time I made sure the battery in my cell phone was charged, so you won't have to worry about answering the phone.”

Charlotte stepped past her and set her supply carrier down on the floor in the foyer.

“Oh, and another thing—” Marian stopped a moment to search through her purse. Not finding whatever she was looking for, she refastened the clasp with a snap. “Just so that you'll know, if Sam finishes a job he's working on over on Napoleon in time, he might drop by to put a second coat of paint on the porch.”

Marian turned, and with a harassed, worried look, muttering every step of the way, she hurried down the hall toward the kitchen. “Now, if only I could find my keys…But where did I put them…”

Shaking her head and wondering how anyone so unorganized could run a business, especially a real estate business, Charlotte picked up her supply carrier and followed.

“Here they are!” Marian triumphantly scooped up the keys off the island countertop. “Right where I left them, of course.” Just as Marian sauntered past her, Charlotte spied her cell phone on top of the counter near where Marian had found her keys. The phone was still sitting on the charger.

“Marian, wait up.” She grabbed the cell phone and hurried after her. “Your phone—don't forget your cell phone.”

With a groan, Marian stopped in her tracks. “What would I do without you, Charlotte? Thanks.” She took the phone, then disappeared through the back door.

 

For a change, the kitchen was fairly clean. B.J.'s bedroom was a different matter. Charlotte wrinkled her nose the moment she entered the boy's room. What on earth was that awful smell? she wondered.

In addition to stinking to high heaven, dirty clothes were strewn from one end of the room to the other. Paper plates, with what looked like the remains of pizza on one and a hamburger on another, along with several empty drink cans, crowded the dresser top. A huge, open bag of chips lay beside the bed, and another bag peeked out from beneath the edge of the bed. Some of the chips had spilled out of the open bag and were crushed and ground into the rug. Charlotte shuddered to think what else might be lurking beneath the bed besides the chips.

“Just do it,” she muttered as she approached it and cautiously kneeled down to peer beneath the bed rail.

The moment she leaned down, she almost gagged. “Oh, gross,” she grumbled as she got to her feet. “At least now I know where that smell is coming from.” With one last disgusted shake of her head, she gathered up all of the dirty clothes, then left the room. Once she'd dumped the clothes in the laundry room and had put on a load to wash, she collected the cleaning supplies she would need to tackle B.J.'s room.

When she returned a few minutes later, she was armed with a broom, a dustpan, and her supply carrier. Using the broom, she began carefully raking out everything from beneath the double-wide bed. With the second pass of the broom, a small milk carton came tumbling out, the source, she strongly suspected, of the sour stench.

Sure enough, when she examined the carton, it was still about a quarter full of now curdled, sour milk. As she dropped the carton into a garbage bag, she supposed she should be thankful that it had curdled; otherwise, spoiled milk would have been strewn everywhere.

Two more passes of the broom beneath the bed yielded various dusty objects, some Charlotte recognized, like a shoe box and several socks. And others she didn't.

Charlotte bent down to pick up the shoe box to add it to the garbage bag too. Thinking it was probably empty, the weight of it surprised her and caused her to fumble and drop it. The top came off, and what looked like newspaper clippings, as well as several other items, scattered over the floor.

“Uh-oh.” Now she'd done it, she thought, staring at the spilled contents. Besides her confidentiality policy, a client's privacy was of the utmost importance to Charlotte. Rummaging through a client's personal belongings was another of her big no-nos, and any time she hired a new employee, they got a full-blown lecture on the matter.

With a shrug and a muttered, “Oh, well,” there was nothing to do but pick up the mess and explain the situation to Marian later. She only hoped that B.J. wouldn't think she'd been snooping through his stuff. Teenagers were especially touchy about their belongings.

Kneeling down, Charlotte reached for the clippings, then froze when the name in the headline jumped out at her. “What the—” She picked up the top article. “Murdered Man Found at Devilier House,” she read aloud. With a deep frown etched across her forehead, she examined the other three articles. All were recent and all were also about Drew Bergeron's murder.

Still frowning, she stared with unseeing eyes at the remaining contents of the shoe box. Why would B.J. be collecting articles about Drew Bergeron's murder? What earthly reason would he have to do such a thing?

In hopes that the rest of the contents of the box would present some kind of explanation, she reached inside and pulled out one of the long, narrow tubes wedged into the bottom. “And what have we here?” she murmured, as she slid the tube apart.

Again Charlotte froze. But her heart began to pound like a jackhammer as scenes of the room where Drew Bergeron's body had been found flashed through her mind. The duffel bag…the scattered pictures…the ground-out cigar on the floor in front of the door leading into the closet, a cigar that looked exactly like the one she was holding in her hand.

Charlotte closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered, recalling what Marian had told her.
He's failing in school, and just last week he got suspended two days for smoking.
“No!” Charlotte said louder, thinking about B.J.'s most recent suspension for fighting. “Not possible.” There had to be another, more reasonable explanation, anything but what she was thinking.

F
eeling a bit shaky, Charlotte sat on the bed. Staring at the suspect cigar and its case, still clasped in her fingers, she took a deep breath, then slowly released it.

Think, Charlotte…think.

She took another deep breath, and another.

While it was true that B.J. was a troubled teenager, there was no way that Charlotte could imagine him killing anyone. Fighting with boys his own age? Yes. But murder…

Charlotte shuddered, and instant shame washed through her for thinking such thoughts about the teenager. Still, the damning evidence was there, plain as day, and no matter what she wanted to believe to the contrary, she couldn't completely ignore the cigars and newspaper clippings.

B.J. had known how his mother felt about Drew Bergeron, had known that she also believed it was possible that his father's death had been a suicide. Even worse, he'd known that she held Drew accountable for his father's state of mind during the months before his death.

Had Marian's bitterness spread to her son, so much so that he would commit murder?

Ordinarily, Charlotte wouldn't have given much credence to the thought that a young teenager like B.J. from such a fine upstanding family could commit murder, but newspaper headlines in the past few years had proved different. The news had been full of young boys in different parts of the country who were committing mass murder, using guns to kill their teachers and classmates.

Guns.

Judith had said…or was it Louis? Charlotte couldn't recall which, but one of them had said that Drew Bergeron was killed by a single gunshot to the forehead with a twenty-two-caliber handgun. And if she remembered right, it was Louis who had said that the particular type of gun used could be bought anywhere and was almost impossible to trace.

Charlotte knew for a fact that there weren't any guns in the Hebert household. She'd cleaned that house from top to bottom and had never seen the first sign of a weapon. Would a boy like B.J. know where to get such a gun?

Even as she contemplated the issue of the gun, something kept nagging at the back of her mind, a loose end that didn't fit at all. But what?

When she finally realized just what it was that bothered her, she was even more confused than ever. For B.J. to have killed Drew Bergeron, first he would have to have known that Drew Bergeron was still alive, that he had faked his death two years ago. But how would B.J. have known such a thing when no one else knew? Everyone, including Drew's wife, had thought he was dead.

Clinging to that thought and feeling only marginally better because of it, Charlotte carefully slipped the cigar back into the tube. Then she placed it, along with the newspaper clippings, back where she found it inside the shoe box and shoved the box back beneath the bed.

Should she tell someone what she'd found? she worried as she busied herself with cleaning off the top of the dresser. Or should she keep quiet about it? She tossed the paper plates and empty cans into the garbage bag. If she did decide to tell someone, then who?

Not Louis, that was for sure. Besides, though she wasn't certain, she didn't think he was officially on the case anyway. But maybe she should tell Marian, or possibly Judith.

Marian.

Whether she told Marian or didn't tell her, how on earth was she going to face the woman after what she'd discovered? But how could she tell her? Charlotte had been dusting the dresser, but she paused. How did you tell a mother that there was a possibility that her fifteen-year-old son had murdered someone?

Charlotte shook her head. She couldn't. She just couldn't do it. So that left Judith. But telling Judith wasn't the answer either, she decided as she plugged in the vacuum cleaner, turned it on, and began vacuuming the rug in B.J.'s room. Though she trusted her niece with her life, Judith was first and foremost an officer of the law.

In her mind's eye, Charlotte could already picture the whole scenario. B.J. being arrested. Marian going hysterical and having a nervous breakdown. Eight-year-old Aaron watching it all, having to be placed in a foster home because his mother was in a mental ward and his brother was in jail…

“No, no, no!” Charlotte muttered, shaking her head again as she switched off the vacuum cleaner. The only thing to do was do nothing at all. For now, anyway. Besides, there was still the question of how B.J. could have known that Drew Bergeron was still alive in the first place.

Charlotte unplugged the vacuum cleaner, then dragged it into the hallway. The next room she tackled was the dining room.

 

When Marian hadn't returned by noon, Charlotte couldn't help feeling relieved. All morning she'd mentally debated the pros and cons of telling Marian what she'd found, but had yet to come up with a solution to the dilemma.

By the time Charlotte was ready to leave by two, Marian still hadn't returned. Charlotte figured that if she hurried, she just might be spared facing Marian at all.

She was rushing around, gathering up her supplies in the kitchen, when she heard a noise at the back door. When she whirled around, Sam was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry—didn't mean to startle you.”

Despite his words of apology, the amused glint in his eyes said he'd known exactly what he was doing. It was hard, but Charlotte bit her tongue to keep from yelling at him for scaring the daylights out of her. He should have knocked first. And he knew that he should have. The fact that he knew galled her, but she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her, so she just continued staring at him.

After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally explained. “I just thought I'd better warn you against leaving through the front door. While I was at it, I went ahead and gave the whole front gallery a fresh coat of paint.”

“Well, thanks for the warning,” she retorted, forcing a brittle smile as she picked up her supply carrier with one hand, then hefted the vacuum with her other hand.

“Here—” Sam hurried toward her. “Let me help you.”

“That's not necessary,” she protested. “I can—”

He took the vacuum from her anyway. “It may not be necessary, but a lady like you shouldn't have to lug around this heavy thing. And by the way, I put up a ‘wet paint' sign on the porch for when the boys come in from school.”

Left with little choice, Charlotte followed him out the back door. Pausing only long enough to make sure the door was firmly locked once she'd closed it behind her, she then turned and followed him down the steps. But at the bottom step, she hesitated. “Marian and the boys usually come in through the back door, but maybe I should leave a note about the wet paint, just in case they don't notice the sign.”

“Nah, that won't be necessary. I plan to hang around for a while until someone comes home. That little scamp, Aaron, would be just the one to ignore the sign on purpose.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Well, if you're sure.”

“There're a couple of shingles loose on the backside of the house that need fixing anyway. And I promised B.J. I'd help him with his science fair project.”

As Charlotte followed the handyman around the side of the house to the front where her van was parked, the thought crossed her mind that maybe Sam would be the person to talk to about what she'd found in B.J.'s room. Marian trusted Sam and relied on him. Charlotte knew for a fact that B.J. spent a lot of time around Sam, and on more than one occasion, she'd seen the boy helping Sam with one of the many odd jobs he did around the house.

Just about the time she'd made up her mind to talk to Sam, though, she spotted Marian's black Mercedes turn the corner at the end of the block, and she immediately changed her mind. The moment Sam put the vacuum in the van, she slammed the back door and hurried around to the driver's side.

“Thanks for the help,” she called out as she climbed inside.

“So when are you going to let me take you out to dinner?” she heard Sam say.

Marian's car was getting closer, so Charlotte pretended she didn't hear the question and firmly closed the door. Jamming the keys into the ignition, she switched on the engine.

Charlotte sent up a quick prayer of thanks that her van was parked in the opposite direction from the path of Marian's approaching car, and still ignoring Sam, she put the van in gear, then pulled away from the curb. Being rude to Sam didn't bother her. She figured he deserved it after he'd purposely scared the daylights out of her earlier.

But running away like a coward instead of facing Marian did bother her, and she was still berating herself when she turned into her driveway and spotted the small tray of dishes stacked by her front door.

Once on the porch, she recognized the bowls as the same ones she'd used to take Louis his dinner the day before. Since his car was gone, she figured either he was feeling well enough to go out or he'd gotten worse and finally decided to go to a doctor.

Charlotte unlocked the door, then picked up the tray and carried it inside. As usual, Sweety Boy began his routine of chirping and squawking as he pranced back and forth on his perch inside the cage.

“Hey, boy, did you miss me?” His only answer was a loud squawk followed by what sounded like several indignant chirps. “Come on, boy, say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte…missed you, Charlotte.'”

Much to her frustration, the little bird kept squawking unintelligible gibberish, and after several minutes, she gave up.

There was only one message on her answering machine when Charlotte checked it. She pressed the play button and listened as she slipped off her shoes and slid her feet into her moccasins.

“Hey, Mom. I just have a minute, but I wanted to invite you out to dinner tomorrow evening for your birthday—unless you have other plans, that is.” He chuckled. “Thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?” He chuckled again. “If you do happen to have other plans though, cancel them. I'll pick you up around seven. Oh, yeah—I almost forgot. Dress up in something spiffy. I'm taking you to Commander's. See you tomorrow evening. Love you.”

“I love you too, son,” she whispered, a smile of delight on her lips as the machine beeped at the end of the message.

“Did you hear that, Sweety?” she told the little parakeet. “I have a date with my son, and he's taking me to Commander's Palace for my birthday.” For an answer, Sweety Boy squawked and preened on his perch. But Charlotte's mind really wasn't on the little bird's antics.

Her smile grew wider. She couldn't remember the last time she and Hank had eaten out, just the two of them. And just the thought of dining out with her busy son at what she considered one of the finest, most prestigious restaurants in New Orleans gave her a warm feeling.

She'd eaten at the restaurant before, but not in a long, long time. Even now, her mouth watered, and she could almost taste the bread pudding soufflé. The dessert was famous, as was the landmark restaurant and the entire Brennan family, who owned Commander's as well as an array of other fine restaurants scattered over New Orleans.

During the remainder of the afternoon, Charlotte's emotions wavered between excitement about the dinner invitation from her son and dread because of the reason for his invitation in the first place. But underlying each of her thoughts and actions was the nagging worry about B.J. and what she'd found hidden beneath his bed.

 

Charlotte had just finished a light dinner of a broiled chicken breast and a green salad when she heard a car door slam in the driveway. Though she figured it was probably Louis, she went to the front window to check anyway.

Sure enough, Louis, toting a shopping bag emblazoned with a Macy's logo, was headed toward the porch. Even from a distance, she could tell he didn't feel well. His gait was slower than usual and his face was a pale contrast against the dark shirt he wore. Charlotte frowned. Since it was apparent that he was still ill, what on earth had possessed him to go to the mall?

Charlotte's lips thinned with irritation, and her temper flared. “Men!” she muttered. Most of them didn't have the sense God gave a goose when it came to being sick. Not only should he be in bed resting instead of traipsing all over creation, but now he'd gone out and carelessly spread his germs to other poor, unsuspecting victims.

Long after Louis disappeared inside his half of the double, Charlotte still fumed as she cleaned up the mess she'd made cooking her dinner. Just what
was
so all-fired important that he'd had to drag himself out of his sickbed to go out shopping? And why to Macy's of all places? Though Louis always looked neat, he never seemed overly concerned about what he wore and was the last person she'd expect to shop at Macy's.