She gently rubbed the little bird’s head. “Good boy. Sweety’s a very good boy.”
Fueled with new resolve, Charlotte turned away and, hands on hips, began pacing the length of the living room. As the old saying went, there was “more than one way to skin a cat,” more than one way to find out what she needed to find out. All she had to do was figure out how.
Abruptly, Charlotte stopped in her tracks. “Tulane,” she murmured. “Of course! That’s it!” Bitsy had mentioned something about Patsy and Lowell Webster both attending Tulane.
A slow smile spread over Charlotte’s face as a mental image of a woman’s face formed in her mind. “Yep! There’s more than one way to get some answers,” she murmured. And she knew just the person to get them from. “Thanks, Sweety,” she whispered.
Charlotte looked up the phone number she needed, then tapped it out. Four rings later, the call was answered with a firm, “Hello.”
“Professor Mac, this is Charlotte.”
The professor laughed. “Why, of course it is. I’d recognize your voice anywhere.” Never one to mince words, the professor got right to the point. “I hope this call means you’re finally going to pay me a visit. It’s been a while, you know.”
“Yes ma’am, it has, and I apologize. But if it’s convenient, I would love to drop by, say, in about ten or fifteen minutes?”
“Well, stop wasting time and come on over.”
The phone clicked in Charlotte’s ear, and with a grin on her face, she hung up the receiver.
“See you later, Sweety,” she called out as she grabbed her purse. “You be a good little birdy while I’m gone.” When Sweety squawked and ruffled his feathers, Charlotte giggled as she locked the front door behind her, then hurried to her
The Italianate-style mansions marked the second great period of affluence for the Garden District, the first being the Greek Revival style. Located on St. Charles Avenue, the Maison Rochelle, with its segmental arches, octagonal bays, and paired scroll brackets was one of the more elaborate examples of the Italianate style.
Maison Rochelle had been built in the 1870s, and though Charlotte had never met the most recent owners, multimillionaires Margie and Clarence Rochelle, she’d often heard of their philanthropic educational endeavors through her other clients.
After Clarence’s death and in his honor, Margie had turned the monstrous old house into a retirement facility that catered mostly to an elite group of teachers and college professors.
As Charlotte pulled alongside the curb in front of the Maison Rochelle, she checked the dashboard clock for the time. She figured she had about two and a half hours, three at the most, before she needed to pick up Davy at the day-care, plenty of time to find out what she needed to know from Dr. Emma Claire McGee.
Known affectionately as Professor Mac to the many Tulane University students who had taken her freshman English course, Dr. McGee had finally retired. A year after retirement, she’d sold her home and moved into Maison Rochelle and had lived there for the past ten years.
Charlotte owed her very livelihood to her beloved Professor Mac and had tried to visit her at least once every two months or so since her retirement. But it had been a while since Charlotte had seen the elderly lady, and in light of the reason she’d come this time, she felt a pang of guilt for not getting by more often.
Two tiers of steps led up to the porch of the home, and midway Charlotte paused a moment to soak in her surroundings.
The grounds surrounding the grand old house were meticulously groomed and lush with a variety of blooming flowers, various tropical plants, and several species of trees. A couple of the live oaks were reputed to be almost as old as the house itself. The sweet smell of roses, gardenias, and magnolias hung heavily in the air, and Charlotte had often thought that if she could bottle up the combined scents, she could make a fortune. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she finally continued up the steps.
Once on the porch, she paused again, but as she turned to admire the grounds one last time, she suddenly grinned, then rolled her eyes.
In the huge oak near the front that draped over St. Charles Avenue were several strands of purple and green beads still clinging to one of the limbs. Though Mardi Gras had been over for weeks, it wasn’t unusual to see the beads dangling from power lines or tree branches, especially along St. Charles Avenue, one of the main routes for the parades. In their enthusiasm, the Krewe members who rode the tall floats sometimes got a bit wild with their aim as they tossed the beads into the crowds that lined the streets. Even so, each time Charlotte spotted the gaudy throws that were left in the aftermath, the sight always made her smile.
“Nowhere but in New Orleans,” she murmured as she turned away and walked to the front door.
Inside the facility, the first floor was divided into single, private rooms for the residents who could no longer care for themselves. The second floor, along with the renovated stable, contained small apartments for those residents who were still mobile enough to only need someone to look in on them a couple of times a day. Ms. Margie Rochelle had renovated and still maintained the carriage house located behind the big house for her own use.
Once inside, Charlotte checked in at the reception desk near the front of the wide, marble-floored entrance hall. The ceiling of the hall soared two stories high, the perfect setting for the magnificent staircase near the rear of the hall. The grand, winding staircase was a masterpiece of design and craftsmanship, its beauty unsurpassed by any that Charlotte had ever seen in the many homes she’d cleaned over the years.
The only modern concession that had been made to the entrance hall was a glassed-in elevator installed to the right of the staircase to accommodate the aging tenants in the home.
The thirty-something woman manning the reception desk smiled warmly at Charlotte. “May I help you?” she asked.
The woman had a certain sophisticated, well-groomed look about her that made Charlotte suspect that she was one of the many Junior League volunteers who often helped out at the retirement facility, volunteering tirelessly with their time and their money.
Charlotte nodded and smiled back. “My name is Charlotte LaRue, and I believe Dr. McGee is expecting me.”
“Why, of course, Ms. LaRue. I’ve already prepared your visitor’s pass.” She held out a small card. “Dr. McGee left instructions for you to go right up just as soon as you arrived.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte slipped the card into her purse. To save time, she decided to take the elevator up to the second floor.
At the door to Professor Mac’s apartment, Charlotte rapped lightly. Within seconds the door swung open, and Charlotte realized that the professor must have been standing near it, waiting for her arrival.
“My goodness, do come in, Charlotte,” the professor gushed. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Charlotte answered.
Professor Mac was just a bit shorter than Charlotte, and the years had been kind to her. Except for her gray hair and a face that had aged with grace, there had been little change in her looks in all the years that Charlotte had known her.
The professor stepped backward to allow Charlotte entrance, and only then did Charlotte notice that she was now using a walker. She motioned toward the walker. “I see you have a new friend.”
The professor rolled her eyes and her smile turned into a grimace. “Don’t remind me. That doctor of mine insists I use the silly thing.” She waved her hand. “ ‘Just for balance, my dear,’” she mimicked in a deep voice that made Charlotte laugh. “But enough about that for now,” the older woman said. “I’ve brewed us a nice pot of tea, so come on in and catch me up on what’s been happening with you.”
Noting that the professor didn’t seem to really need the walker, Charlotte followed her over to the sofa in the living area.
“Now you just have a seat,” the professor told her, pointing at the sofa, “and I’ll get our tea.”
Eyeing the walker, C
harlotte asked, “Do you need some help?”
The professor shook her head. “My goodness, no.”
Then, to Charlotte’s amusement, she made a big production out of folding up the walker and leaning it against the wall. “I told him I didn’t need this thing,” she grumbled, “but just in case he decides to pop in unexpectedly”—she winked at Charlotte—“I always use it whenever I answer the door.” With a saucy grin, she stepped over to the kitchenette that was off to one side of the living area.
Charlotte glanced around the room, her eyes noting that even with the stacks of books that covered almost every available surface, the room was neat and dust-free. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant; it was a scent she recognized immediately, and she wondered if it was the same brand that she used.
“Looks like their housekeepers are doing a good job for you,” she commented.
“Oh my, yes,” the professor called out from the kitchen. “Those people drive me crazy with their constant cleaning. And speaking of cleaning—” Carefully balancing a tray containing cups, a teapot, and what looked like a plate of old-fashioned tea cakes, she walked toward Charlotte. “How’s Maid-for-a-Day doing? Has that son of yours talked you into retiring yet?”
“The business is fine, and, no, I haven’t given in yet.”
“And I guess you’re still cleaning, too.”
Charlotte nodded. “No reason not to.”
The professor set the tray down in between two stacks of books on a low table in front of the sofa. “Just as stubborn as ever, huh, Charlotte?” She poured the tea, then handed Charlotte one of the china cups. “But that stubbornness has served you well all these years, hasn’t it? Sugar or cream?” She waved a hand. “No, never mind. I forgot that you don’t use either one in your tea.” Then, without missing a beat, she said, “I still say you should have kept going to school, but there was no reasoning with you back then, either.”
Charlotte took a sip of the tea to hide her smile. It was the same conversation they’d had for more years than Charlotte cared to remember, but she didn’t mind in the least, nor did she argue or defend the decision she’d made after her parents’ deaths. At the time, she’d been a single mother with a small child and a teenage sister to support; she’d had little choice and limited financial resources to draw on, none of which included money for continuing at Tulane University.
Once the professor had failed to talk her out of quitting school, she had been the one to suggest that Charlotte could earn quite a bit of money if she didn’t mind cleaning other people’s homes. Then she’d gone a step further and recommended Charlotte to several of her wealthy friends in the Garden District.
“But that’s all water under the bridge now,” the professor continued. She leaned forward and placed her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “So, tell me, what’s all this nonsense about your nephew?” She shook her head and made a tut-tut-tut sound. “I swear, a body can’t believe a word of what they read in the papers or hear on the news these days. Why, that young man is no more guilty of murder than I am.”
Charlotte silently breathed a quick prayer of thanks for the perfect opening she’d been given. “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she said. “And you’re right, of course. It’s not true. None of it. And once again, I find myself in need of your help.”
For the next few minutes Charlotte explained the events leading up to Daniel’s arrest and ended by telling the professor what Bitsy had mentioned about bad blood between Patsy Dufour and Lowell Webster.
“Bitsy said that both of them had attended Tulane,” Charlotte added. “And I thought you might remember something about them—something that might explain why Bitsy thinks they’re enemies and why Nadia thinks Lowell Webster is somehow involved.”
The professor pursed her lips, and for several moments she stared at Charlotte, deep in thought. “It’s been a long time,” she finally said, “but I do remember Patsy and Lowell. Let me see, now. As I recall, Lowell was an excellent student, but Patsy was only average. I always thought it had to do with the difference in their upbringing. Lowell was there on a scholarship and loans, while Patsy’s folks paid her way through.” She paused, then nodded. “If I remember right, those two dated for a while, but, then, my memory isn’t what it used to be.” She suddenly brightened. “Tell you what, though, you might find out more from Jane Shaw—well, she’s not a Shaw anymore. I believe her name is Calhoun now.”
“Jane Calhoun? The Jane Calhoun who lives on First Street?”
The professor nodded. “If she’s married to Glen Calhoun, then that’s the one. Jane and Patsy were as thick as thieves back then. They were sorority sisters and gave me fits in class with all of their shenanigans.”
Charlotte grinned. She could hardly believe her ears or her luck. For a short period of time, she’d once worked for the Calhouns, right up until Glen Calhoun had been severely injured in an accident, one that had left him permanently impaired. After the accident, Jane had decided that they needed live-in help, so she would have more time to take care of her husband, and she’d reluctantly had to terminate Charlotte’s services.
Charlotte shook her head. “Know what? You’re amazing, Professor Mac. How on earth do you remember all of that stuff?”
The professor’s lips thinned into a sad little smile. “I don’t remember like I used to. But to answer your question, I never married and didn’t have any children of my own, so my students became my whole life—my surrogate children, so to speak. And a mother never forgets her children,” she added. “But here now”—she reached down and picked up the plate of tea cakes—“you simply must try one of these. This recipe’s been handed down in my family for at least three generations that I know of.”
And that’s the end of that subject, thought Charlotte, as she selected one of the smaller tea cakes. Hoping it didn’t contain too much sugar, she took a small bite, but as she chewed, out of the blue, an idea began to form, and she surreptitiously glanced at her watch. If she left now, she might have just enough time to run by Jane Calhoun’s before she had to pick up Davy.
Ordinarily she would never consider just dropping in on someone without calling ahead first, but the gut feeling that time was of essence just wouldn’t go away. On the other hand, if she left now, the professor might get her feelings hurt over such a short visit.
What to do? What to do? “Mm, these are delicious,” Charlotte murmured, wondering what kind of excuse she could use to leave right away. Then the perfect pretext came to her. Even as the half-lie took form, the tiny voice of her conscience cried out, Liar, liar, pants on fire. First gossiping about a client, and now lying. Shame on you.
Though Charlotte cringed inside, she swallowed hard and ignored the nagging voice in her head. She made a show of holding out her left arm to check her watch. “My goodness, just look at the time,” she said. “I almost forgot. I really hate to, but I’m going to have to leave. Daniel’s little stepson is staying with me, and I have to pick him up at day-care.”
Hoping the professor wouldn’t notice, as Charlotte leaned forward to place her cup back onto the tray, she slipped the rest of the uneaten tea cake into her pocket, then stood.
The professor stood, too. “Oh, that’s so nice.” She sighed. “A little boy in the house must be lots of fun. But here—wait a second.” She scooped up the plate of tea cakes. “Boys are always hungry, so let me just wrap a few of these in some foil for you to take with you.”
Minutes later the professor returned with the foil package of tea cakes. When she handed them over to Charlotte, she tilted her head and smiled. “Tell you what, Charlotte. Why don’t I give Jane a call for you and let her know you’re coming?”
Charlotte’s cheeks suddenly felt as if they were on fire, but, then, she shouldn’t have been surprised. The professor had always been far more intuitive than her students had given her credit for.
Charlotte wanted to thank her old friend, but the words stuck in her throat and all she could do was nod.
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br /> Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte’s cheeks were still warm with embarrassment when she pulled into Jane Calhoun’s driveway. How could she have forgotten just how astute and forthright the professor could be—and how unselfish and giving?
Not only had the professor phoned Jane to let her know that Charlotte needed to talk to her, but she’d paved the way by taking the time to explain exactly why Charlotte needed to talk to her.
Jane and Glen Calhoun’s home was what was commonly referred to as a transitional-style house, a combination of the Greek Revival and the Italianate styles. The double-galleried house, along with its perfectly manicured gardens, was set back from the street and surrounded by a cast-iron fence designed in a rare cornstalk pattern.
Just as Charlotte entered through the gate of the elegant fence, the front door swung open. Jane Calhoun, a tall, slender woman in her mid-fifties, stood in the doorway with a smile on her face. “This is such a pleasant surprise,” she called out. “It’s been ages since we talked, and it’s really good to see you again, Charlotte. I just wish it were under better circumstances. Come on in.”
Charlotte returned the smile as she climbed the steps. “Considering the reason for my visit, it’s very gracious of you to agree to see me on such short notice.”
Jane stood back to allow Charlotte entry. “Don’t be silly, Charlotte. We’re old friends.”
Once inside, Jane directed Charlotte to the formal sitting room. “I don’t know how much I can help, but I’m more than happy to do what I can for Daniel.” She motioned for Charlotte to sit on the sofa. “You may not know this, but Daniel helped me out of quite a bind two years ago.”
“He did?” Charlotte eased down onto the sofa and shook her head. “I guess I didn’t realize that you even knew my nephew.”
Polished Off (Charlotte LaRue Mystery Series, Book 3) Page 13
