Maid for Murder (23 page)

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Authors: Barbara Colley

BOOK: Maid for Murder
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But Charlotte’s amusement swiftly grew into amazement as she watched Clarice slowly lift first one arm, then the other. But from the way her arms quivered, Charlotte could tell that the exertion was a strain.
Weight training? Clarice worked out with weights? What a hoot! she thought. As long as she’d been employed by the Dubuissons, Charlotte couldn’t ever recall seeing Clarice do any kind of physical exercise despite Jeanne’s efforts to persuade her otherwise. In fact, the old lady balked at even the suggestion of doing anything physical.
But as Charlotte continued watching the older woman, she recognized immediately that Clarice was no stranger to using the weights. She knew exactly what she was doing.
As she continued to observe the old lady and felt her own arms strain with each curl the old lady achieved, a peculiar feeling deep inside took root and grew. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but instinct told her that the old lady probably wouldn’t appreciate having an audience.
Charlotte quickly backed away from the door, then retraced her steps to the top of the stairwell. The thing to do would be to ignore what she saw, to simply take care of what she was hired to do and mind her own business.
Still . . . there was something about the whole thing that bothered her, and like a pesky fly that wouldn’t go away, her curiosity finally got the best of her. What would happen if . . .
Before she could change her mind, Charlotte called out, “Miss Clarice, you doing okay in there?” Charlotte took her time walking back to the bedroom door.
When she looked inside the room, Clarice was back in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Her wrinkled face was flushed, reminding Charlotte of how it had looked when she’d first arrived and checked on her, and the barbells were nowhere in sight.
Either Clarice had hidden the weights under the bedcovers or she had shoved them beneath the bed. But the truly bizarre thing about the whole incident was that the old lady was lying there with her eyes closed; of all things, she was pretending to be asleep.
But why? Charlotte wondered as she stared at the old woman. Why would she hide the fact that she was weight lifting or that she was stronger than she pretended to be? To what purpose?
When the answer first popped into her mind, Charlotte almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the notion. At first, she dismissed the idea totally as but one more example of her own overactive imagination.
But as she backed out of the doorway, a prickly feeling danced along the nape of her neck, and her mind was bombarded with what could only be described as instant replays of different scenes that had occurred over the past week.
. . . the arguments between Clarice and Jeanne over Jackson . . . the coarse, powdery substance in Clarice’s bathroom ... the almost-empty sleeping-pill bottle . . . the description of the murder weapon in the autopsy report . . . the scuff marks on the stairs ... the smell of bacon and the messy kitchen . . .
In a daze, Charlotte slowly walked back to the stairwell. By the time she reached the first step, her knees were weak from the enormity of the implications.
At the stairs, she gripped the rail, then sank down to sit on the top step. Was the notion absurd? Had Clarice killed her son-in-law?
In and of itself, yes, the notion was absurd. Clarice was a crippled old woman who wasn’t strong enough to overpower a man Jackson’s size.
But given all of the facts, no, the notion wasn’t that far-fetched. It would have been difficult but not impossible for Clarice to have spiked the scotch with the sleeping pills. Once the bottle had been opened, all she had to do was add the powder.
She also had access to the perfect murder weapon. According to what the autopsy report had revealed, the barbells were just about the right size.
Charlotte shivered and glanced back toward the old lady’s door. Fifteen years earlier, Andrew St. Martin had been murdered in what was eerily similar, by all accounts, to the way Jackson was killed. Was it simply a weird, unfortunate coincidence, or was there a more logical reason? she wondered. Could it be that the same person who had murdered Andrew had also killed Jackson?
Could the murderer have been Clarice? Was it possible that she had killed both her husband and her son-in-law?
According to what Bitsy had said, the police had thought it was possible when Andrew was murdered. Clarice had been the number-one suspect in her husband’s death. But Jeanne had provided her mother with an alibi, so there was no way of proving it. Jeanne was very devoted to her mother, but did her devotion include covering up the murder of her own father and now her husband as well?
As for motive . . . Though Charlotte certainly didn’t condone murder in any shape or form, she could understand the motive Clarice might have had for killing Andrew, especially if he’d been abusive to her and Jeanne. But what about her motive for killing Jackson?
He’s stealing you blind . . . and Jackson, got his . . . serves him right too . . .
The only logical answer that Charlotte could think of was the oldest reason in the world: a mother protecting her child.
Clarice might be old and appear to be senile at times, but she was well aware of the loveless relationship between Jackson and her daughter. She’d accused Jeanne of being weak . . . spineless, and on more than one occasion, she’d made it crystal clear that she didn’t trust her daughter’s husband. If Clarice had somehow found out that Jackson was also cheating on Jeanne, then . . .
Charlotte suddenly remembered Clarice’s accusations against Brian O’Connor. The old lady had accused him of killing Jackson, had said he was sneaking around, spying. Charlotte had a growing suspicion that Clarice, in fact, had been the one sneaking around and spying.
Had the old lady’s accusation simply been a ploy calculated to throw suspicion on Brian and divert suspicion away from Jeanne and herself? And if it had, why had Clarice revealed all of that stuff to her instead of telling the police?
When the answer came to her, Charlotte almost groaned out loud. Clarice knew. Somehow she’d found out that Judith, a police detective, was Charlotte’s niece. And if she knew, then it was possible she’d counted on Charlotte to reveal the information about Brian. If Clarice had revealed it directly, the police might not have taken it seriously, but if the information was revealed indirectly ...
Charlotte suddenly got the feeling that she’d been had. Big time. But was Clarice that clever, that devious? Had she used her?
With a weary sigh, Charlotte pulled herself up and stood. Suddenly, she felt old, very old and tired, as she trudged down the stairs.
Speculating about Clarice’s guilt was one thing. She could speculate till doomsday, but to what end? Just thinking about blowing the whistle on the old lady made her queasy. For one thing, Clarice wasn’t just any old lady; she was Jeanne’s mother and Anna-Maria’s grandmother. She was also an affluent woman who was well known and respected throughout the city.
So she should get away with murder?
The nagging voice of her conscience made Charlotte cringe. No one should get away with murder.
But what if she was wrong? What if she went to Judith, told her what she knew, told her what she suspected, and then found out she’d been mistaken about everything?
Charlotte shuddered. The repercussions of such a mistake would be catastrophic. Not only would she lose a long-term client, but the Garden District, in spite of its size, was truly a small community. Word would travel like wildfire. Even now, she could hear the whispers and gossip. She could kiss her little cleaning service good-bye. Why, she’d be lucky to ever work again.
No, she decided. All she had right now was what the movies and mystery books termed as circumstantial evidence. All she had were unproven speculations. Before she could go around accusing someone of murder, she’d need proof, real proof, the kind that would stand up in a court of law.
Proof, like the residue from the crushed phenobarbital tablets.
At the foot of the stairs, Charlotte groaned and almost tripped over the last step. In her mind’s eye she saw herself cleaning Clarice’s bathroom, wiping off the cabinet top, possibly destroying the only evidence that could substantiate her suspicions.
Then, like a lightbulb going off in her head, she suddenly remembered that she had never gotten around to doing the laundry. The washcloth she’d used to wipe up the powder was still in Clarice’s dirty clothes hamper. Surely the residue on the washcloth was still detectable.
There was also the prescription bottle itself. If the pills were used, the pill count and the date the prescription was filled wouldn’t jibe, would they? Unless . . . Charlotte almost groaned again. Unless Jeanne had remembered to get the prescription refilled.
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed its quarter-hour signal, and Charlotte’s pulse jumped. Time was flying, and she still needed to vacuum the main parlor before the caterers arrived. And soon after the caterers, people would start trickling in from the funeral service.
If she wanted to get the evidence, she needed to do it now, while she had the opportunity. But was that what she wanted?
Her head swirled with doubts, and a war of emotions raged within her. She tapped her fingers impatiently along the top of the stair rail. “What to do . . . what to do,” she murmured.
Chapter Eighteen
N
o one should get away with murder.
Charlotte calculated that if she hurried, she could get the evidence and still have time to vacuum the parlor.
In the movies she’d seen and in the mystery novels she’d read, the police always wore plastic gloves when gathering evidence at the scene of a crime. She also recalled that as they gathered it, they used either paper or plastic bags to store it. Charlotte always kept a small box of disposable plastic gloves in her supply carrier, and she figured she needed a paper sack, since the washcloth might still be damp.
In the laundry room, she rummaged through a stack of paper goods earmarked for the recycling bin until she found what she needed. She folded the medium-size sack into a small, flat square, then slipped it inside her apron pocket.
Midway up the stairs, she frowned. Why was the television set off? she wondered. Usually the infernal thing stayed on nonstop, day and night.
Outside Clarice’s bedroom, she rapped lightly on the doorframe. “Miss Clarice,” she called out, “I’m ready to clean your room now” She peeked around the open doorway “May I come in?”
The old lady was perched on top of the bed and propped up by several pillows. In her hands was a book, of all things. Even more surprising was that she had changed from her nightgown into a cotton knit pantsuit. Her hair was brushed, and Charlotte was astonished to see that she had even applied a touch of rouge and lipstick.
Clarice glanced up over the top of her glasses. “You can stop your gawking and come in.” She motioned impatiently for Charlotte to enter. “I do dress up once in a while, you know,” she said defensively “Wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment to anyone”
And committing murder isn’t an embarrassment?
Charlotte had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out the thought. Afraid that what she was thinking would show, she quickly lowered her gaze to stare at the floor. “Since you’re reading,” she said evenly, “maybe you’d like to sit out on the gallery while I change the sheets. That way I won’t disturb you.” Hoping the old lady would be cooperative for a change, she added, “It’s a beautiful day this morning”
“One day’s the same as another when you get to be my age,” Clarice grumbled. “And the sheets are just fine. They don’t need changing. Besides, I’m tired. I don’t want to go outside. Just clean around me. But hurry up. My ten o’clock soap opera comes on soon.”
By all means, we wou/dn’t want to miss our soap opera.
To hide her contemptuous thoughts, Charlotte forced a smile through tight lips. “I’ll start in the bathroom,” she said politely.
Once inside the small room, she nudged the door closed behind her and set down her supply carrier. She figured her fingerprints were already on the suspect prescription bottle, since she’d handled it when she’d gotten a pill for Jeanne, but she donned a pair of thin disposable gloves, anyway, before she sorted through the prescription bottles. Thank goodness for Jeanne’s absentmindedness, she thought when she found the phenobarbital bottle and saw that Jeanne had neglected to get the medication refilled.
Charlotte narrowed her gaze and peered at the date that the prescription was last filled. According to the number of tablets that were supposed to be in the bottle, minus the one she’d given Jeanne, she calculated that at least four were missing. Though Charlotte knew she was far from an expert on drugs, she figured that four would have been just enough to render a man Jackson’s size unconscious without outright killing him.
She slipped the prescription bottle into the paper sack she’d brought with her, then turned to the dirty clothes hamper. The hamper was so full that clothes were spilling over the edges.
The flannel nightgown Clarice had just changed out of was on top. She removed the gown and several damp towels under it Just beneath another crumpled nightgown, she spied what she hoped was the corner of the washcloth she was looking for.

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