Maid for Murder (21 page)
Authors: Barbara Colley
Of course, both possibilities hinged on whether she could believe Clarice. Had she been mistaken in dismissing the old lady’s accusations?
Working for the Dubuissons’ neighbors would have certainly presented Brian many opportunities to spy on both Anna-Maria and Jackson. It would have also afforded him knowledge about the layout of the house.
But what about motive? she wondered. Did he have a motive, enough to commit murder? After all, according to Bitsy, it was Andrew St. John who had framed Brian and had him sent to prison, not Jackson.
Still . . if what Bitsy Duhe had told her was true, how would Brian have felt, knowing he’d been cheated out of the woman he loved and a daughter as well, a daughter who didn’t even know he existed and had grown up thinking another man was her father?
But why now? she wondered as she watched the cars cross the intersection in front of her. Why would Brian have waited so long to do something about it? And what about his alibi? According to Judith, Brian’s father had given him an alibi. But wouldn’t any parent do the same if they suspected their child was in trouble?
The traffic light finally turned green, and Charlotte accelerated. The whole thing was a puzzle, she decided, a giant puzzle with too many missing pieces.
When Charlotte turned down her street, she expected to see Madeline’s car parked in front of her house. But there was no sign of her sister’s jaunty red Neon. Though she wasn’t exactly surprised—Madeline had never been that dependable—Charlotte felt a twinge of disappointment in spite of herself.
Now what? she wondered as she unlocked the door and let herself inside. Should she call Madeline or simply wait until she heard from her? She could always go ahead and start on the rooms, anyway The last time she’d cleaned them had been over six months ago, right after the last renters had sneaked out while she was at work without paying her the two months back rent they owed. If nothing else, she could at least air out the place.
“What would you suggest I do?” she asked Sweety Boy.
The little bird’s only answer was to ruffle his feathers and prance back and forth on his perch.
“Well, you’re no help,” Charlotte told him as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into her moccasins.
Out of habit and because she thought Madeline might have called, she checked her answering machine. The blinking light indicated she had three messages, and Charlotte hit the PLAY button.
“Hi, Charlotte, this is Nadia. I just thought I’d let you know what a wonderful man your nephew is. He’s already arranged for Davy and me to see Ricco, and what’s more, he’s agreed to take Ricco’s case. Thanks again for your help, and I’ll talk to you later.”
As the machine beeped and the next message began, a smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. Nadia and Daniel. Now those two would make a perfect couple, she thought.
“Hi, Mom.” The sound of her son’s voice on the answering machine instantly wiped away her matchmaking thoughts. “Just checking in, since I haven’t heard anything out of you in a few days,” he said. “Guess you’re busy, though, like everyone else, huh? You don’t have to be, you know. If you weren’t so stubborn, I—Never mind. Just give me a call when you get a chance. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she murmured as the machine beeped, signaling the end of Hank’s call and the beginning of the final message.
“Charlotte, there’s been a change of plans.”
At the sound of her sister’s voice, Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Would you believe,” Madeline continued, her recorded voice breathless with excitement, “my old boss just called and wants me to come back to work? He says the office manager should never have fired me without consulting him. Between you and me, though, I suspect his offer has more to do with the fact that I work on certain special accounts for him that are—Well, let’s just say the IRS would have a field day if they knew the truth about them. Anyway, isn’t that great! But hey, Charlotte, thanks, anyway, for the offer to help and for—for just being there. You’re the greatest. Talk to you later.”
The machine beeped, signaling the end of the message, but all Charlotte could do was stare into space with unseeing eyes as her sister’s message spun through her head.
“Yeah, I’m the greatest, all right. The greatest chump.” Just like that, she thought. One minute her sister was starting her own business, and the next, she’s not.
“And speaking of business, what’s that business about special accounts?” she muttered. “And the IRS?” Charlotte frowned. What on earth was Madeline thinking? And what in the world had her sister gotten involved in this time?
Charlotte’s frown deepened. “And why am I standing around talking to myself, for Pete’s sake?” It was a bad habit she’d gotten into of late, one she really needed to work on breaking.
Charlotte returned Hank’s call but was told he was in with a patient. She left her name with his receptionist and made a mental note to try again later if she didn’t hear from him.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she tried to stay busy and not worry about her sister’s troublesome message.
She went next door and opened all the windows to let the rooms air out. Then she let Sweety Boy out of his cage and began the distasteful task of cleaning it. Meanwhile, she kept telling herself that Madeline was no longer a helpless little girl. Her sister was a grown woman, responsible for herself. If she got herself into trouble with the IRS over some questionable bookkeeping, then it was no one’s fault but her own.
But no matter how hard Charlotte tried not to worry and how much she scrubbed and cleaned Sweety Boy’s cage, she couldn’t get her sister’s message out of her mind.
It was almost six by the time that Charlotte took a break. She had just sat down in front of the television to watch
JAG
while she polished off the last of the leftover chicken gumbo from Sunday’s lunch when the phone rang.
JAG
while she polished off the last of the leftover chicken gumbo from Sunday’s lunch when the phone rang.
In spite of the fact that
JAG
was a rerun, it was one of the few programs she truly enjoyed, and she was hungry, so she decided to let the machine take a message.
JAG
was a rerun, it was one of the few programs she truly enjoyed, and she was hungry, so she decided to let the machine take a message.
“Charlotte, this is Jeanne Dubuisson. I really need to talk to you—”
The moment she heard Jeanne’s voice, Charlotte set down the bowl of gumbo, then rushed over to the desk and grabbed the receiver. “Hang on, Jeanne,” she said as she switched off the answering machine. “Sorry about that,” she told her. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re home. Jackson’s body has finally been released. We’re having the funeral tomorrow at eleven. But Anna-Maria and I have to be at the funeral home by eight, so there won’t be anyone who can let you inside the house when you get here in the morning.”
“What about leaving me a key somewhere?” Charlotte suggested.
“Why, yes, I suppose I could. Tell you what. I’ll leave it under that big potted plant that sits on the right side of the front door”
“And don’t forget to leave the front gate unlocked, too”
“Good point. Lately I’ve been so forgetful that I’d better write myself a note.” Jeanne hesitated. “I’d like to ask another favor, too,” she said after a moment had passed. “I’m really going to need some help after the service, when everyone congregates at the house—you know, with the refreshments and drinks. I’m having the food catered, but the catering service I’m using doesn’t supply anyone to serve the stuff. I’d be willing to pay you extra.”
“There’s no need for that,” Charlotte said. “I’ve already told you I’ll help in any way I can. I’m just so sorry all of you have to go through this”
“You’re a good person, Charlotte LaRue, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Just so you’ll be watching for him, the caterer promised he would deliver everything around ten.”
“I’ll be ready for him,” Charlotte assured her.
The line hummed with silence for a moment, then Jeanne cleared her throat. “I really hate imposing on you like this,” she said, “but there’s just one more little thing I need help with, too. Mother still refuses to attend the services, and she won’t hear of me getting a sitter. The way she’s been acting lately, I—Could you—I mean, would it be too much of an imposition for you to come a little earlier than usual, and would you mind checking on her while we’re gone?”
“Of course I don’t mind, and it’s not an imposition. I’ll be there, so just stop worrying—and try to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day for you.”
“Lately, they’re all hard, but I’ll try. And thanks, Charlotte. See you tomorrow.”
Charlotte hung up the receiver. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, signaling the rain that the dreary day had promised. Charlotte quickly sent up a prayer that the storm would pass over quickly. Funerals were hard enough on the family involved on a good day. A cloudy, rainy day always made things seem worse.
Chapter Sixteen
T
he day of Jackson Dubuisson’s funeral dawned bright with sunshine, but the air was heavy with steamy humidity left over from the stormy night.
he day of Jackson Dubuisson’s funeral dawned bright with sunshine, but the air was heavy with steamy humidity left over from the stormy night.
Charlotte had set her alarm clock fifteen minutes earlier than usual so that she would still have time to take her daily walk before going to work. By the time she’d finished the walk and stepped into the shower, she was dripping with sweat.
Sweat was good for you, though, she grudgingly reassured herself as she stood under the tepid spray of water, rinsing off a rich lather of soap. She’d once read an article somewhere that sweating opened up the pores and helped the body rid itself of impurities.
Charlotte switched off the faucets and reached for a towel. So if it was so good for you, why did she still feel so icky even after taking a shower? Whoever had written that silly article had never lived in New Orleans, she figured.
Charlotte kept her promise to Jeanne and arrived early. When she approached the front of the house, she was vastly relieved to see that there was no sign of the reporters who had kept vigil for the past four days.
They were probably all at the funeral, hovering around the church like a flock of vultures, just waiting to pick up some juicy tidbit to exploit.
Thankful that she could finally park in her usual spot, Charlotte pulled the van over to the curb near the corner. When she climbed out of the vehicle, an old battered truck pulled alongside the curb of the house next door and parked.
Charlotte immediately recognized the truck as belonging to the gardener, Joseph O’Connor, but the lone man who climbed out of the truck was Brian, not Joseph.
He acknowledged her presence with a brief nod; then, after he’d unloaded a wheelbarrow, he immediately began stacking it with bags of what looked like fertilizer out of the back of the pickup.
Where was his father? she wondered as she watched Brian heave the large bags out of the truck bed.
Though he was some distance away, with each movement he made she could still see the muscles in his arms and back straining beneath the black T-shirt he wore.
What was it that Bitsy had told her about his father? Something about his being ill? No, not exactly ill, she thought as she walked to the back of the van.
Charlotte climbed inside and began gathering the supplies she would need. Bitsy had said Joseph sometimes had problems with his arthritis and that it was the reason Brian had moved back to New Orleans.
But was that the real reason? Was Brian simply being a good, dutiful son, or did he have another, more sinister agenda for returning to his hometown, one that included revenge and murder?
Supply carrier in hand and her mind whirling with the implications of her thoughts, Charlotte climbed slowly out of the van. As she slammed the door and locked it, she toyed with the idea of using the old gardener’s condition, as an excuse to start up a conversation with his son.
But to what purpose?
The moment the question popped into her mind, she immediately realized how far-fetched and silly the whole idea was. If Brian did realize that Anna-Maria was his daughter, he wasn’t about to discuss it with someone he’d only met a few days earlier. And if he’d cold-bloodedly murdered Jackson Dubuisson, he would be a fool to confess his crime to anyone, let alone the maid from next door.
The moment the question popped into her mind, she immediately realized how far-fetched and silly the whole idea was. If Brian did realize that Anna-Maria was his daughter, he wasn’t about to discuss it with someone he’d only met a few days earlier. And if he’d cold-bloodedly murdered Jackson Dubuisson, he would be a fool to confess his crime to anyone, let alone the maid from next door.
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