On Tuesday morning, Charlotte was once again able to get her shower and dress before Davy awakened. The coffee was brewing, and she figured that if she was very quiet, she might even have enough time to have a first cup and scan the newspaper headlines before the little chatterbox got up.
As quietly as she could, she unlocked the front door and walked out onto the porch. For a change, the Doberman across the street simply stared at her through the fence and didn’t growl or bark.
Once she’d retrieved the newspaper, she stood for a second staring up at the morning sky. The sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the trees. According to the temperature gauge hanging on the porch, it was a glorious sixty-five degrees, the perfect weather to take a walk.
Charlotte sighed. The cooler weather wouldn’t last. With a shrug, she went back inside. By noon it would heat up to the high seventies, possibly the low eighties. But none of it mattered anyway.
Now that she had Davy, it was going to be almost impossible to take a walk, even in the evenings. His little legs were too short to keep up with the pace she liked to set, and though she’d considered pushing him in one of those umbrella strollers, the sidewalk was much too uneven for her to consider it.
When Davy did awaken, over breakfast, once again Charlotte asked him if he would like to play with the kids that day. His eager nod was a huge relief. After dropping the little boy off at the day-care, she drove to the home of Bitsy Duhe, her Tuesday client.
Bitsy lived on the same street as the famed author, Anne Rice. Though Charlotte much preferred mystery novels to the horror genre, she greatly admired the author and had had more than one fantasy about being hired to clean for her.
Bitsy Duhe’s home was a raised-cottage style, and, like Bitsy herself and most of the other homes in the Garden District, it was very old and very grand.
Depending on her mood, Charlotte sometimes dreaded Tuesdays. In most of the homes that she had cleaned over the years, the clients busied themselves with other things while Charlotte worked, and they were content to let Charlotte go about her business without interfering. But not Bitsy. There had been more Tuesdays than Charlotte cared to count when Bitsy had followed her from room to room, all the while chattering away about people that Charlotte either just knew vaguely or had never heard of. And on those particular days, Charlotte had to remind herself that Bitsy was simply lonely.
Edgar Duhe, Bitsy’s husband, had once been the mayor of New Orleans, and he and Bitsy had led an active social and political life. But Edgar had died three years earlier, and since his death, Bitsy no longer attended many social functions due to her advancing age. That, added to the fact that the only family she had were a son and two granddaughters who all lived out of state, left Bitsy with far too much time on her hands. To fill that time, Bitsy kept the phone lines hot, checking in with her old girls’ network of friends on the latest gossip going around or the latest scandal.
By the time Charlotte had unloaded her supply carrier and locked the van, she wasn’t in the least surprised to see Bitsy waiting for her at the front door.
“Good morning,” Charlotte called out as she climbed the steps to the porch.
As usual, Bitsy was fully dressed in one of her midcalflength, floral patterned dresses, and every purple-gray hair on her head was in place. She was a spry, birdlike woman with a face that had surprisingly few wrinkles considering her age, and Charlotte could only hope she would look that good herself when she reached her eighties.
Bitsy smiled and returned Charlotte’s greeting. “Good morning to you, too.” But her smile faded quickly. “Oh, Charlotte, dear, how are you?” She stepped back inside into the foyer and Charlotte followed her. “I’ve been so worried about you and that nice young nephew of yours.” Bitsy closed the front door.
Though Bitsy’s words and tone sounded sympathetic enough, and she probably meant well, Charlotte braced herself. The eager sparkle in the old lady’s faded blue eyes was all too familiar; it was a look that meant that Charlotte was in for the third degree.
“Such a shame,” Bitsy said, sighing heavily. “Just a crying shame, what with him just getting married and all. Of all things, someone like him being charged in a murder. Ridiculous! That’s what it is. Just ridiculous!” She looped her arm through Charlotte’s. “Now I want you to just forget about cleaning for the moment and come on back to the kitchen with me.” She tugged on Charlotte’s arm, leaving Charlotte little choice but to go along with her.
“That new juicer I ordered—you know, the one I told you about last week—well, it finally came yesterday, and I just finished squeezing some fresh orange juice. We’ll have a nice glass of juice before you get started.”
Bitsy hadn’t mentioned ordering another juicer, but Charlotte didn’t bother to correct her. Of late Bitsy had grown really touchy about her ability to remember things. That the older lady had bought yet another kitchen gadget didn’t surprise Charlotte in the least, though. Bitsy was obsessed with any and every kind of new gadget that came along, and if memory served her, by last count Bitsy already owned at least two juicers.
Bitsy’s attempt at subterfuge didn’t fool Charlotte in the least. Having a glass of juice was just an excuse for the old lady to interrogate her in order to have more grist for the gossip mill. Charlotte choked back a groan. From her past experiences of dealing with Bitsy, she’d learned that it was much easier and saved time to simply go along with her than to protest.
Once in the kitchen, Charlotte set down her supplies, then seated herself at the breakfast table. “Just a small glass, please,” she told Bitsy. “I have another job after I finish here, so I really need to get started.”
Bitsy frowned as she handed Charlotte a large glass of juice. “Another job? Anyone I know?”
Too late, Charlotte realized her mistake. “Patsy Dufour,” she answered reluctantly, knowing she’d just given Bitsy the opening she needed.
If possible, the spark in Bitsy’s eyes grew even brighter. “Yes, siree, such a crying shame about all of that,” she said. “Why, I heard that Patsy almost had a nervous breakdown, right then and there, screaming like a banshee and carrying on. And who could blame her? Bad enough that all those artifacts were stolen in the first place. But to end up with one in your own backyard, then to find out that there were human bones in it.” Bitsy shuddered and shook her head. “I’d probably have had a heart attack.”
Charlotte decided against confirming or denying Bitsy’s version of what had taken place; instead, she took a healthy drink of the juice. Then she made the mistake of swallowing wrong and almost choked.
“My goodness, Charlotte, don’t be in such a hurry.” Bitsy motioned at the glass in Charlotte’s hand. “Just sip it.”
Charlotte coughed and tried to clear her throat.
“And speaking of those stolen artifacts”—Bitsy shoved a large scrapbook halfway across the table—“I’ve been keeping up with all the news stories.” She reached over and tapped the scrapbook with her forefinger. “Kept everything that’s been written up about them right in there.” Barely missing a beat, she continued. “I understand that Patsy told the police that she bought the urn out of that old warehouse on Tchoupitoulas—the one they’re turning into condos.” Again she shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least, I’ll tell you, given Patsy’s political alliances.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose, and in spite of her resolve to keep her mouth shut, her curiosity got the best of her. “What on earth does Patsy Duhe’s political alliances have to do with turning the warehouse into condos?”
“Not that. My goodness, Charlotte, pay attention. I’m talking about Lowell Webster. Patsy would do anything to cast aspersions on that lovely man.”
Charlotte grew even more confused. “Lowell Webster?”
Bitsy’s eyes widened. “Now, come on, Charlotte. Surely you know who Lowell Webster is.”
“Yes, yes, of course I do, but what has Lowell Webster got to do with Patsy?”
; “Why just about everything. They’ve been enemies for the longest.”
“Enemies?”
Bitsy gave her an exasperated look. “Yes, enemies, Charlotte. Enemies since way back, when they were both students at Tulane. And until recently—until he sold it—that warehouse belonged to Lowell.” She tapped the scrapbook with her forefinger. “There was an article all about it.”
Bitsy pursed her lips. “And another thing. I don’t care what anybody says, Lowell just couldn’t have had anything to do with that thieving gang of thugs who stole all of that stuff.” She shrugged. “But that’s what happens when a good man like Lowell decides to run for office around here. If they can’t find something legitimate against him, they make something up, anything to ruin his good name and reputation.
“Well, I’m here to tell you, New Orleans would be dadgum lucky to get a man like Lowell Webster for mayor. If my Edgar were still alive—God rest his soul—he’d be supporting Lowell one hundred percent.”
Trying to follow Bitsy’s logic was like swimming underwater in a muddy swamp. “Now let me get this straight,” Charlotte said, still trying to make sense out of Bitsy’s diatribe. “You’re claiming that Patsy purposely indicated that particular warehouse just because Lowell Webster happened to own it once.”
“Why, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Bitsy answered with a satisfied smirk. “Nothing would please her more than to see Lowell’s good name dragged through the dirt And another thing. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that all that screaming and carrying on she did was all a big put-on—just an act. Yes siree, I’d bet my last dollar that she was lying through her teeth about where she got that urn.”
“Now, Bitsy, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched, like some sort of conspiracy theory or something?” The moment the words left Charlotte’s mouth, Bitsy’s reaction made her wish she could take them back.
The older lady’s lower lip quivered and she blinked several times. “I may be getting old, Charlotte, but I’m not senile—not yet Contrary to what some people think, my mind works just fine.”
“Of course it does,” Charlotte quickly reassured her. Growing senile was one of Bitsy’s biggest fears, right along with being forced to leave her home due to her age or due to her inability to care for herself. Charlotte patted the old lady’s hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m still upset about Daniel’s situation.” She stood. “But right now, I really must get busy and earn my pay.”
Though Bitsy gave a wan smile and nodded, Charlotte could tell that the old lady’s feelings were still hurt. “And by the way,” she added. “I really believe your new juicer works a lot better than those others. The orange juice was wonderful.”
As Charlotte had hoped, her compliment was just what the elderly lady needed to hear. Her eyes brightened and she gave Charlotte a huge grin. “It does work better, doesn’t it,” she said.
I’d bet my last dollar that she was lying through her teeth about where she got that urn. Like a pesky fly, Bitsy’s comment about Patsy kept buzzing through Charlotte’s thoughts throughout the morning, as did the fact that, yet again, Lowell Webster’s name had been brought up in a conversation.
By noon, she had finished at Bitsy’s, and the older lady seemed to be in a better mood by the time Charlotte was ready to leave. As Charlotte packed the last of her cleaning supplies back into her supply carrier, she heaved a heavy sigh. All morning long she’d waged a mental debate with herself. Like it or not, for once she was going to have to bend her own rules about prying and gossiping.
There was no other way around it. Two lives were at stake—four, if she counted Davy and the new baby. If she was going to help Nadia and Daniel, she had to get certain information, and there was only one way to get that information. A little prying into Patsy Dufour’s life was a small price to pay to get to the truth ... wasn’t it?
Now all she had to do was figure out how she could bring up the subject of Lowell Webster to Patsy without seeming too obvious or too—Charlotte shuddered—too nosy.
Chapter Twelve
Ordinarily Charlotte allowed herself at least a thirty-minute lunch break when on the job. To save time, she decided that for today she would eat the sandwich she’d brought with her in the van, en route to Patsy’s house.
By the time she reached Patsy’s, she was still chewing on the last bite of the turkey sandwich as well as mentally chewing on the best approach to use to initiate a conversation with Patsy about Lowell Webster.
As she drove past the entrance gate a flash of white at the top of the gate caught her eye. She also noticed that Patsy’s Mercedes was missing from where it usually sat in the driveway.
After parking the van alongside the curb, Charlotte unloaded her supply carrier, locked the van, and trudged back to the entrance gate, all the while telling herself that Patsy’s car could be in the shop for repairs.
The flash of white turned out to be an envelope taped to the gate, and it was addressed to Charlotte. With a sinking feeling, Charlotte set the supply carrier down on the sidewalk and pulled the envelope loose from the tape. Inside was a brief note from Patsy.
Sorry I couldn’t give you more notice, Charlotte, but something unexpected came up. I’ll see you on Thursday instead.
Patsy
Still glaring at the note, Charlotte felt her temper rising. On the street just a few feet away from the sidewalk, cars and trucks whizzed by, and somewhere down the block a lawn mower roared to life, but the noise was nothing compared to the angry roar in Charlotte’s head.
The sound of voices were what finally broke through to her, reminding her where she was. Out of the comer of her eye, a movement caught her attention.
Tourists. A whole group of wide-eyed, camera-toting tourists, hanging on to every word that the tour guide was telling them, were walking straight toward her.
“Humph! If they only knew,” she muttered. Clutching the note and envelope, Charlotte executed an about-face. Trying her best to ignore the tourists, she sidestepped around the group and stomped back to the van. With each jarring step she took, she fumed. All she could think about was how she’d planned and prepared, then rushed around the entire morning, just so that she could work Patsy into her schedule.
Inside the van, she slammed the door shut so hard that the vehicle rocked from the force. Using both hands, she crushed and wadded the note and envelope into the size of a Ping-Pong ball. Then, in a fit of anger and frustration, she tossed it over her shoulder into the back.
By the time that she pulled into her own driveway a few minutes later, her initial anger had passed, leaving only a deep-seated feeling of shame.
Although it pained Charlotte to admit it, she knew that most of her anger and frustration had nothing at all to do with Patsy canceling without notice and everything to do with her own plan to poke and pry into Patsy’s life being thwarted. Just the thought of prying into Patsy’s personal life was shameful enough, but now she would be forced to wait two whole days before she could question her about Lowell Webster. Two whole days ...
Charlotte suddenly went stone still. Davy! She’d completely forgotten about picking up Davy at the day-care.
Charlotte immediately shifted into reverse, then froze. With a groan of disbelief, she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “What a dingbat,” she muttered. With a shake of her head, she shoved the gear shift back into park and switched off the ignition.
There were still at least three hours to go before it was time to pick up Davy, but because she’d gotten so flustered about Patsy canceling the job, she’d also gotten confused about the afternoon schedule.
Serves you right. Charlotte ignored the voice of her conscience and climbed out of the van and locked it. On legs that felt weighted with lead, she slowly made her way to the front steps. Maybe Hank was right after all. Maybe it was all getting to be too much for her to handle. Day in and day out ... juggling schedules, cleaning, keeping the books.
Maybe it was time she though
t about retiring, like Hank wanted her to. He’d been after her for months, offering to subsidize her income. But Charlotte shuddered at the thought of retirement as she unlocked the front door. “And maybe you just need to screw your head back on straight,” she murmured, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She glanced over at Sweety Boy’s cage. “What do you think about that, Sweety?”
For an answer, the little bird squawked, ruffled his feathers, and flapped his wings. It was a ritual designed to get her attention, and a part of his normal routine each time she returned home,
Ignoring him for the moment, Charlotte set her purse down, stepped out of her shoes, and slipped on the pair of moccasins she kept by the front door. Still deep in thought, and more out of habit than anything else, Charlotte finally moved over to the little bird’s cage and stuck her forefinger through the wires. Sweety Boy immediately sidled up to her finger and rubbed his head against it.
Ordinarily Charlotte would have tried to coax the parakeet into talking, but for the moment she was unable to work up enthusiasm for anything, let alone making another unsuccessful attempt to teach the bird to talk.
Not for the first time, she wished there were such a thing as a switch or button that she could turn or push to instantly clear her mind of all the clutter.
Suddenly Sweety Boy squawked and began making clicking noises. Then, as plain as day, he said, “Pretty boy. Sweety Boy’s a pretty boy.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. “Oh, Sweety,” she whispered. “Oh my goodness, you did it! You really did it!”
For long seconds, all she could do was stare at the little bird in awe. For months she’d been trying to get him to talk, and though he had said a few words here and there, he’d never said a complete sentence despite all her coaxing and pleading.
“Just goes to show,” she finally murmured. “You shouldn’t give up. There’s always hope.” Charlotte blinked several times as sudden realization washed through her: giving up was exactly what she’d been subconsciously doing in regard to Daniel and Nadia’s situation.
Polished Off (Charlotte LaRue Mystery Series, Book 3) Page 12
