Maid for Murder (24 page)
Authors: Barbara Colley
“There you are,” she whispered, half in anticipation, half in dread.
It’s not too late. You can still walk away and forget about it.
Charlotte hesitated, her mind reeling with sudden misgivings despite her earlier conclusions. Part of her wanted to be wrong about everything, wanted it to all be just another example of her own imagination gone wild, while part of her railed against the idea that anyone could cold-bloodedly murder another human being and get away with it.
Knowing in her heart of hearts that there was only one way to find out for sure and that she couldn’t live with herself until she did, Charlotte took a deep breath and braced herself for what had to be done.
She had figured that the washcloth might still be damp. But just in case it had dried out, she didn’t want to risk losing even one grain of the powdery residue from the crushed tablets that might still be on it. Ever so carefully, she reached to remove the wadded-up nightgown first.
The moment she closed her fingers around the silky gown, something sharp pricked her finger. “Ouch!” she cried as she snatched back her hand.
“Charlotte?” Clarice called out from the bedroom. “What’s all the ruckus in there? What on earth are you doing?”
Charlotte yanked off the plastic gloves. A small pearl of blood bubbled on the inside of her right forefinger. “Ah . . . I—I’m cleaning. I just jammed my finger,” she lied, her gaze shifting to the closed door. What if the old woman decided to come check on her? Then what?
“Yeah, right,” Charlotte muttered as she turned her attention back to her finger. Since when had Clarice worried about anyone but Clarice?
At first, Charlotte couldn’t figure out what had stuck her, since nothing was in her finger. When she picked up the glove and carefully turned it inside out, she spotted a small sliver of glass.
Glass?
Using her fingernails, she removed the sliver and placed it on the countertop, then rinsed her hands beneath the faucet.
Why would a sliver of glass be embedded in a nightgown? she wondered as she retrieved a roll of paper towels from her supply carrier and tore off a sheet.
As she blotted her hands dry and applied pressure to her bleeding finger, she stared at the gown. One sliver of glass in and of itself wasn’t that significant. But if there were more...
Reaching down, she cautiously tugged around the edges of the crumpled gown. She pulled back and straightened one of the sleeves but didn’t see anything. Then she gingerly examined the other sleeve. Sure enough, caught in the row of tightly gathered ruffles near the wrist of the sleeve were several more tiny slivers of glass. Like minuscule diamonds, they sparkled in the glare of the overhead light fixture.
As Charlotte stared at the gown, the overwhelming significance of her discovery hit her like a bolt of lightning. She drew in a sharp breath and felt blood roaring in her ears.
She’d wanted proof, but she’d also held out the tiniest bit of hope that she was mistaken, that Jackson’s murder was indeed a random act of burglary gone bad.
There was no mistake, though. Even without the prescription bottle and the washcloth, the nightgown, with its sleeve of glass slivers, would be all the proof that the police would need.
Charlotte’s stomach turned queasy. At least one of Judith’s theories was correct, she thought. The murder of Jackson Dubuisson was most definitely an inside job, an elaborate setup from the beginning.
From downstairs came the grating sound of the front-gate buzzer.
“Someone’s at the gate, Charlotte,” Clarice called out.
Charlotte glanced at her watch. Had to be the caterers, she thought. She took a steadying breath.
Just keep cool.
“I heard it,” she finally answered. “I’m on my way. In just a minute,” she added, pausing to glare at the nightgown.
Just keep cool.
“I heard it,” she finally answered. “I’m on my way. In just a minute,” she added, pausing to glare at the nightgown.
Knowing that the consequences of what she was about to do would be staggering, once again indecision plagued her. Charlotte sighed wearily. Before she could change her mind, she pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and slipped the sliver of glass into the paper sack. Then she reached into the clothes hamper and carefully removed the gown. Once she’d placed it in the sack, too, she removed the gloves and stuffed them in her apron pocket. With the paper sack firmly in her grasp, she picked up her supply carrier and left the bathroom.
The short journey from the bathroom through Clarice’s bedroom took ten seconds at the most, but Charlotte could feel Clarice’s eyes on her, watching her every step of the way, as she briskly walked across the bedroom to the hallway door. Only when she reached the hallway, out of sight of the old lady’s curious gaze, did Charlotte remember to breathe.
Downstairs, Charlotte peeked out the entrance-door side light When she saw two uniformed delivery men standing at the gate, their arms loaded down with white boxes, she hit the RELEASE button for the gate, then opened the front door.
Once the men were inside, she led them back to the kitchen. After they had deposited the boxes on the countertops, the older of the two produced an itemized receipt, while the other man went back out for the rest of the delivery.
Charlotte hurriedly checked the items listed against the contents of the boxes. Once she was finally satisfied that everything that had been ordered had been delivered, she signed the receipt and handed it back to the man.
After the delivery men left, she made a quick trip to her van and loaded her cleaning supplies. It would soon be time for those who had attended the funeral to start arriving, so on her way back inside, she decided to leave the front gate ajar instead of locking it.
From that moment on, she was so caught up in hurrying to vacuum the parlor, then setting out and arranging the food in preparation for the influx of guests, that she didn’t have time to dwell on anything else but the task at hand.
She’d just finished filling the ice bucket when the peal of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. Hands on her hips, Charlotte glanced around the kitchen, then nodded with satisfaction.
In the dining room, she paused and looked around. Everything was ready. The food was out and properly displayed, and the downstairs half of the house was clean and orderly.
Charlotte hurried through the dining room to the foyer.
At the entrance door, she took a moment to straighten her apron. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
Her eyes widened with shock, and she gasped.
Chapter Nineteen
S
tanding in the doorway, his camera slung over his shoulder, was the newspaper reporter who had chased her down and harassed her.
tanding in the doorway, his camera slung over his shoulder, was the newspaper reporter who had chased her down and harassed her.
Charlotte’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to interview Mrs. St. Martin.”
“To what!”
“Mrs. St. Martin,” he repeated. “I’m here to interview Mrs. Clarice St. Martin, the mother-in-law of the murder victim”
Charlotte shook her head. “No way!”
He shrugged. “Hey, lady, she called me.”
“She called—” Suddenly it all made sense, a strange, weird kind of sense. When she’d first seen Clarice all dressed up, she’d assumed the old lady wanted to look her best because of the people coming over after the funeral. She should have known better. Clarice didn’t give a hoot about what anyone who was supposedly mourning Jackson Dubuisson’s death thought despite what she’d said to the contrary. The old lady had dressed up for an interview with the newspaper reporter.
But why? Why would Clarice want to be interviewed? What did she hope to accomplish?
The best defense is an offence.
The moment the old saying popped into Charlotte’s mind, she suddenly knew exactly - what Clarice hoped to accomplish. The old lady was shrewd and a bit crazy, she decided. Crazy like a fox. Charlotte figured Clarice was going to spout the same song and dance she’d given her about Brian O’Connor, but even if this was another attempt to shift suspicion to Brian, there was still the question as to how she knew to call this particular man?
The moment the old saying popped into Charlotte’s mind, she suddenly knew exactly - what Clarice hoped to accomplish. The old lady was shrewd and a bit crazy, she decided. Crazy like a fox. Charlotte figured Clarice was going to spout the same song and dance she’d given her about Brian O’Connor, but even if this was another attempt to shift suspicion to Brian, there was still the question as to how she knew to call this particular man?
Charlotte raised one imperious eyebrow. “You’re lying,” she accused, “lying through your teeth. I don’t believe for one second that Mrs. St. Martin called you.”
The reporter rolled his eyes upward. “Okay, okay, you got me dead to rights. She didn’t call me. I called her. But she agreed,” he quickly added.
Charlotte drew herself up to her full height. Clarice might be clever, but there was more than one way to skin a rabbit Or in this case, a fox, she thought as an idea began to form.
“Young man, do you know what day this is?”
He frowned in annoyance. “It’s Friday. So what?”
“So what indeed! Today is the funeral of Jackson Dubuisson. Any minute now, his friends and family will be arriving.”
The reporter’s frown deepened. “That can’t be,” he said. “The old lady—Mrs. St. Martin—She said the funeral was tomorrow—on Saturday. She was very insistent that I was to come today. Not that it matters,” he quickly injected. “One day is as good as another.”
Charlotte gave him a look of disgust. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t have any manners or respect for the dead. It’s people like you who give the news media a bad name.” She paused, then, in her most pitying tone, said, “And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Miss Clarice got the days mixed up. Senility is such a terrible disease. Poor thing. After all, she is getting on in years and tends to get confused now and then. If you know what I mean,” she added for emphasis.
“She’s senile?”
Charlotte simply shrugged, neither denying nor confirming the reporter’s assumption.
The sound of car doors slamming behind him momentarily diverted his attention, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“The funeral must be over,” Charlotte said, getting a bit nervous herself as her gaze shifted to a small crowd of people gathering just outside the gate. She needed to get rid of this pesky man, she thought, but how, without making a scene?
Then Charlotte spotted her niece making her way through the group of people. Though she wasn’t that surprised to see Judith, for it was a standard practice for the police to attend the funeral and the gathering after the funeral of a murder victim, she suddenly knew exactly how she could force the reporter to leave.
“Oh, there’s Ms. Monroe,” Charlotte said, careful to inject just the right amount of surprise in her voice. “She’s one of the police detectives assigned to this case, you know”
The reporter turned around to stare. “Detective? Which one?” he asked, unable to contain his excitement. “Do you think she would answer a couple of questions for me?”
Not if I know my niece,
Charlotte thought as a sly smile pulled at her lips. “Why don’t we ask her and find out? Why, here she is now,” Charlotte said as her niece approached the steps leading up to the gallery.
Charlotte thought as a sly smile pulled at her lips. “Why don’t we ask her and find out? Why, here she is now,” Charlotte said as her niece approached the steps leading up to the gallery.
“Good morning.”
Charlotte’s smile grew wider. “Good morning yourself. Judith, dear, this young man is a reporter and wants to ask you a few questions about poor Jackson’s murder.”
“He what?” Judith stopped midway up the steps, just long enough to glare at the reporter. “Of all the nerve!” Her eyes blazing with daggers, she stomped up the remaining steps. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re on private property, bub. Get lost now or I’ll run you in for trespassing.”
The look of defeat on the reporter’s face was poignant. Realizing he’d been had, he turned and glared at Charlotte. “Clever. Very clever,” he murmured.
With more guests arriving by the minute, Charlotte decided to station herself by the open door, just inside the foyer. As she greeted the guests and directed them to the dining room, Judith stood on the porch and made sure that the reporter left without harassing anyone.
“I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up here after the funeral,” she told Charlotte a few minutes later. “I’ve got a good mind to call the
Times-Picayune
and complain.”
Times-Picayune
and complain.”
“I’ve already called,” Charlotte said. “I spoke to Mary Johnson, and she—”
“Who’s Mary Johnson?” Judith interrupted.
“She’s the daughter of Claude and Lydia Johnson, who were longtime clients of mine before Claude retired. You know—the ones who own that old mansion near St. Charles and Louisiana Avenue. Mary is one of the
Picayune’s
managing editors. Anyway, when I described the man to Mary, she said my description fits a man they’ve had complaints about before. And get this. He’s not even a regular employee. He’s just a freelance reporter they buy stories from once in a while.”
Picayune’s
managing editors. Anyway, when I described the man to Mary, she said my description fits a man they’ve had complaints about before. And get this. He’s not even a regular employee. He’s just a freelance reporter they buy stories from once in a while.”
“Well, that’s certainly good to know,” Judith said. “From our past dealings with the paper, the staff reporters have always been both courteous and cooperative. None of them would ever have pulled a stunt like that guy did today.”
Charlotte placed her hand on her niece’s arm. “You don’t know the half of it,” she said, thinking about Clarice. “But Judith,” she confided, “I need to talk to you about something urgent.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guests who had just arrived had moved into the dining room.
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