Dusted to Death (10 page)

That Angel shifted her gaze downward to stare at the tabletop was telling, but Charlotte couldn’t help but note that her question had captured Barry James’s interest. The lawyer suddenly sat up straight and stared at Angel.

Guess that got his attention,
Charlotte thought. But when Angel finally responded, she said, “No, he wasn’t blackmailing me.” She lifted her gaze and stared hard into Charlotte’s eyes. “But even if he was, why would I admit such a thing? Admitting it would give the police even more ammunition against me.”

“I’m not the police,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Anything you tell me goes no further.”

Angel gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Look, Ms. LaRue, no offense. I know that Benny trusts you and I respect that, but right now, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Except me, of course,” her lawyer quickly injected.

Angel snapped her head around and glared at him. “Yeah, well, the jury is still out on you, so to speak,” she retorted. “And, unfortunately, it’s still out on me as well.”

Back at home, Charlotte sat down at the kitchen table and looked over the notes she’d taken down from her conversation with Benny. Though she had been disappointed that Angel wasn’t more forthcoming, the visit wasn’t a total bust. Now, more than before, she was convinced that Nick Franklin had been blackmailing Angel.

At the bottom of the page of notes she wrote the word
blackmail
and added several question marks behind it. Then after the question marks, she wrote,
Angel is lying, but why?

Whatever the reason for the blackmail, Charlotte understood the starlet’s reluctance to admit such a thing. Even so, she had to wonder what in Angel’s background could be so terrible that she could be blackmailed to begin with.

“O-kay,” she murmured, drawing the word out after staring at the notes for several minutes. Charlotte had always held the theory that there was more than one way to get past an obstacle in her path. If she couldn’t go through it, then there had to be a way of going around it or over it.

She tapped her pen against the pad of paper. So, besides Angel, who was the most likely suspect?

Bruce King’s name immediately popped into her head. The man’s whole mission in life seemed to be digging up dirt on people, especially Angel. Since he’d been barred from the set and couldn’t get near her because of her bodyguard…“And couldn’t bribe the maid to cooperate,” she muttered. Maybe, like she’d told Benny, he’d decided to create his own dirt. What better dirt or scandal was there than for Angel to be accused of killing her boyfriend?

Maybe it was time for her to find out more about Mr. Bruce “Tabloid Journalist” King. Charlotte shuddered at the thought of having to even come near the sleazy man again. But there were other ways without actually confronting him.

Charlotte stood and walked to the telephone. After punching in a phone number she waited. On the fourth ring, the phone was answered.

“Maddie, it’s me,” she said into the receiver. “Are you busy right now?”

“No, just trying to decide what I’m going to fix for tomorrow’s lunch after church.”

For years it had been a family tradition that Charlotte and Madeline alternated hosting a lunch for their combined families after church services. With everything that had happened that week, Charlotte was grateful that this Sunday was Maddie’s turn to furnish lunch.

“I can’t decide whether to fix a roast or gumbo,” Madeline continued. “I’m leaning heavily toward a chicken-andouille gumbo, though, since gumbo is much better cooked ahead of time than a roast.”

Charlotte didn’t want to hurt her sister’s feelings, but Maddie’s gumbo left a lot to be desired. “Gumbo is always good,” she said diplomatically, “but you do fix a mean roast.”

“Hmm, yeah, well, we’ll see. So, what’s going on with you?”

Charlotte felt like telling her, Nothing much, just a murder that needs solving, but figured it would be best to explain in person. “I need some help with a little project I’ve taken on.”

“O-kay, what kind of help?”

At her sister’s reluctant tone, Charlotte felt a smile tugging at her lips, and just to aggravate her, she said, “I’ll tell you when I get there. Be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“What kind of project?” Maddie demanded.

Charlotte’s lips curved into a full-blown smile. “See you in fifteen,” she said, and quickly hung up the receiver.

“S
o, what did you decide about lunch tomorrow?” Charlotte asked her sister fifteen minutes later when she entered Madeline’s living room.

Madeline narrowed her eyes, then closed the door. Ignoring the question, she said, “Right after you hung up on me, I suddenly remembered that you’re supposed to be working at Bitsy’s house this week while that movie is being shot. Your so-called project wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the murder of that movie star’s boyfriend, would it?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t her boyfriend—not exactly.”

Madeline groaned and shook her head. “I should have known. Now I’ll end up having to play peacemaker between you and Judith again.”

Less than a year earlier, there had been another murder that Charlotte was involved in solving, and Madeline had the unfortunate experience of being present when she and Judith had a heated conversation over Charlotte’s involvement.

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I promise you won’t end up in the middle this time. I’ll make sure of it. Besides, I’ve already talked to Judith.”

With a suspicious look on her face, Madeline crossed her arms over her breasts. “Yeah, and I’ll bet she told you to mind your own business.”

Charlotte shrugged. “And your point?”

Madeline groaned. “Never mind. I give up. You always have been one stubborn woman.”

“Again, and your point?”

“Grrr—stop that!”

Charlotte snickered. “Okay. I’ll stop if you will. Truce?”

“Truce,” Madeline answered. “Now, about this project.”

“What I need is your computer expertise,” Charlotte told her.

“For what?”

While Charlotte explained about Bruce King, Madeline led the way back to the bedroom that served as her home office. “I need you to do one of those search thingies—”

“It’s called Googling,” Madeline explained with a roll of her eyes as she sat down in front of her computer and powered it up.

Charlotte waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever—anyway,
Google
everything you can about Bruce King, especially any articles that he’s already written about Angel.”

“You know that Hank would set you up with a computer if you asked.”

“Yeah, he’s mentioned it a time or two.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Part of me really wants to learn how to operate one, but another part of me balks at even the thought.”

“Old age,” Madeline quipped. “The older some people get, the less they want to learn.”

“I am not old,” Charlotte insisted. “Not that old anyway.”

“Okay, sister dear, then drag up that chair over there and pay attention.”

“Aw, come on, Maddie, do I have to? Can’t you just do it for me, then show me the results?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Oh, okay,” Charlotte grumbled. Over the next half hour her sister gave her a crash course on how to turn on the computer, what a mouse was and how to use it, how to access Google, and what to do once Google popped onto the screen.

“I’ll never remember all of that,” Charlotte complained. “And what if I mess it up or something?”

“Yes, you will remember it,” Madeline insisted. It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you’ve learned it, you’ll always know it. As for messing something up, you won’t. That little back arrow in the upper-right-hand corner is the key and will take you back to the last thing you looked at. Now—” Maddie stood and indicated that Charlotte should sit in her chair. “I want you to try it. And stop looking like you just sucked a lemon.”

Knowing that Madeline wouldn’t give up until she did it, Charlotte, with a sigh of resignation, stood and they exchanged chairs.

Two hours later, after scrolling through page after page of articles written by King, Charlotte was almost ready to give up when the word
murder
jumped out at her. She quickly placed the cursor on the link like Maddie had showed her, and clicked on it. After a moment, the Web site of a tabloid called the
Hollywood Tattletale
popped up.

“Now, that’s strange,” she murmured as she noted that the date of the article was the same day that Angel had been arrested. At first she skimmed the article; then she started over and read it more slowly. When she had finished, she stared at the computer monitor. How could he have gotten the article out so fast? Not only that, but where had he gotten his information, details that she was fairly certain that only the police would know? King was either a
really
fast writer or he was psychic.

“Or he’s as guilty as sin and wrote the article ahead of the actual murder and arrest,” she whispered. Since she didn’t figure anyone could be that fast of a writer and didn’t believe in psychic mumbo jumbo, that left guilty.

Her thoughts racing, after a moment she finally decided that there might be another explanation. If King hadn’t set up the whole thing and done the murderous deed himself, what if he’d made a deal with the devil, so to speak? What if he knew who the real killer was and had prior knowledge of what was about to happen?

Only one way to know for sure, she decided. Find Bruce King, find the answers.

After Charlotte left her sister’s apartment, she decided that the best place to start was Bitsy’s house, just on the off chance that Bruce King might be hanging out with the rest of the media. She figured that by now, most of the media had probably left, but there might still be a few still hanging around, hoping that they could get an exclusive from someone.

Once she’d turned down Bitsy’s street, though, she wished she hadn’t. What if she did see him? What would she do then? Question him? And if she questioned him, what on earth would she ask him? There was no way she could just come right out and ask if he’d killed Nick and set Angel up to take the fall.

Worrying about an encounter with Bruce King turned out to be unwarranted. As she drove slowly by Bitsy’s house, as far as she could tell, Bruce King was nowhere to be seen. Bitsy’s front entrance door was still sealed off with crime scene tape. The only people there were a couple of policemen patrolling the perimeters of the property and what appeared to be a few gawkers.

“Makes sense,” she decided. Either way—whether he’d actually committed the murder or knew who had—he wouldn’t want to hang around.

A few minutes later, the first thing that Charlotte noted when she pulled into her driveway was that Louis’s car was still gone. With everything that had happened over the past few days, she hadn’t really had time to dwell on Louis or the mysterious discussion he wanted to have with her.

Charlotte’s stomach growled loudly as she unlocked the front door to her side of the double and went inside. Eyeing the blinking light on her answering machine, she deliberately ignored it for the moment and headed straight for the kitchen. Already it was past her regular lunchtime, and she really needed to eat. After she’d decided on a ham sandwich and leftover potato salad, she fixed a plate and took it back to the living room so she could watch the noon news and weather.

Before turning on the television, she took a moment to bow her head and say a prayer of thanksgiving. After asking for her meal to be blessed, she prayed about the weather, specifically that there would be no tropical activity out in the Gulf of Mexico to worry about. What with first, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, then, a mere three years later, Hurricanes Gustav and Ike, she prayed that the tropics would be quiet and mild this hurricane season, and that no one would have to contend with damaging weather.

With a firm “Amen,” she picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. By the time the news and weather were over and she’d satisfied herself that there was nothing new about Nick’s murder or Angel’s arrest, Charlotte had finished her meal.

Again she eyed the blinking answering machine light. “Guess now is as good a time as ever,” she murmured. After she set her empty plate on the coffee table, she walked over to the desk to listen to her messages.

The first message was from Louis. “Hi, Charlotte. Guess your new job played out, what with the main star being arrested for murder, huh?” There was a long pause. “Not quite sure how to say this except just to come right out and say it. Stay out of it. Let the police handle it. Anyway, enough said. Looks like I’ll be in Houston longer than I’d planned. If you don’t mind, would you collect my mail for me? I would appreciate it. Oh, and in case you need to get in touch with me, just call my cell phone. See you in a few days. Bye.”

Stay out of it?
Charlotte fumed. Just who did he think he was? What was it with him? A few kisses and he thought he could dictate what she could do and what she couldn’t do?

Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?

Ignoring the aggravating voice of reason, she muttered, “‘Enough said’ indeed,” and immediately dismissed his so-called advice. Until he started paying her bills, he could mind his own business and stay out of hers.

Louis’s message ended with a beep, and the second message began. “Charlotte, this is Bitsy. Where the devil are you? I tried your cell phone and left a message, and this is the third time I’ve called you at home. What’s going on at my house? No one will tell me anything.”

A beep sounded, and the mechanical voice of her answering machine informed her, “You have no more messages.” Frowning, Charlotte dug inside her purse for her cell phone. “Great,” she whispered. “I didn’t even turn the ding-dang thing on this morning.” So how many more messages had she missed?

Charlotte turned on the cell phone. After determining that Bitsy’s call was the only one she’d received, she turned the phone off again and dropped it back inside her purse.

Still aggravated over Louis’s call, she marched into the kitchen and placed her dirty dishes into the dishwasher, all the while telling herself to take a few deep breaths and calm down. By the time she returned to the living room, she felt somewhat better.

Stopping by her desk, she stared at the phone and the financial ledger that was still exactly where she’d put it. Charlotte sighed. There was still Bitsy to contend with and she still needed to catch up on paperwork for Maid-for-a-Day.

Charlotte sighed again. Dear Lord, she dreaded calling Bitsy almost as much as she dreaded the boring task of posting receipts to the ledger. She’d much rather check in with Benny and see if he knew where she could find Bruce King.

“First things first,” she murmured. The ledger could wait a while longer, but if she didn’t call Bitsy, she’d never hear the end of it. So first she’d return Bitsy’s call, and then she’d phone Benny. Even if Benny didn’t have any information on King, she’d bet her bottom dollar that he’d know someone who did.

Half an hour later, Charlotte hung up the telephone receiver and once again had to take several deep breaths to calm down. Though she had tried repeatedly to reassure Bitsy that her house and her possessions were under lock and key with policemen patrolling the grounds, the elderly lady kept insisting that Charlotte needed to check it out for her. Of all things, Bitsy was still worried about the blood-soaked antique rug.

When Charlotte explained that the crime scene team had taken the rug with them, Bitsy had a conniption fit. “What about the wood floor beneath the rug?” she’d whined. Then she’d started a tirade about how she’d have to have the floor sanded and refinished. Never mind that a man had been murdered, and never mind that an innocent woman was being held for that murder. Since Bitsy didn’t know them personally, none of that really mattered to her. All she could think about was her ruined rug and floor.

“You could get inside the house if you wanted to,” Bitsy had declared. “It may not be too late to scrub up the bloodstains. Get that niece of yours to let you inside.”

The only way she’d been able to finally end the conversation was to promise Bitsy that she would at least ask Judith about getting inside the house.

“I swear.” Charlotte shook her head. At times, talking to Bitsy was like talking to a brick wall. The elderly lady had been her client for several years now, and it seemed that the older Bitsy got, the more stubborn she became.

Be careful. That’s kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. Judge not, lest ye be judged. You’re no spring chicken, you know, and you’re getting older as well
.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlotte muttered, recalling what her sister had said about “old age” earlier that morning. “Guess everything’s relative,” she whispered. She thought of Bitsy as being old, and Maddie thought of Charlotte as being old.

“Enough already. Right, Sweety?” she called out. But Sweety Boy ignored her. Probably pouting, she decided, since it had been days since she’d let him out of his cage to stretch his wings. After the time he’d flown into the shower and after his adventure outside several months earlier, now she always made sure that she could watch him when he was out of the cage. Maybe she’d let him out once she’d talked to Benny.

After a brief futile search of the top of her desk for Benny’s cell phone number, she remembered that she’d scribbled the number at the bottom of the list of notes she’d taken when they had discussed the suspects.

Once she’d retrieved the notepad, she dialed the number. After the fourth ring, Benny answered. “Hello, Benny Jackson here.”

“Benny, this is Charlotte.”

“Hey, Miss Charlotte. Any luck with Angel?”

“No, but I could tell that there’s definitely something that she’s hiding. I think you’re right about that blackmail business. But listen, one of the reasons I’m calling is in hopes that you might know how we could locate Bruce King.”

Charlotte went on to explain about the article written by King that she’d found. “Besides being the best suspect we have at the moment,” she continued, “I think we should explore all of the possibilities. He seems to know a lot about a lot of things. Even if my suspicions about him don’t pan out, it just might be possible that he stumbled onto something about Angel and Nick. I thought he might be hanging around the house where the movie is being shot, but when I drove by, I didn’t see him.”

“Finding King might be helpful,” Benny offered, “but it’s not likely that he’s going to confess or give out any information. Besides, if he knew anything about the blackmailing business, don’t you think he would have included it in his article?”