“I heard that Jonas Tipton is going to be the presiding judge at the trial,” she said. “How that man is still sitting on the bench is a miracle. Why he’s older than I am, and Margo Jones told me he’s almost senile. Why, I heard that—”
“Miss Bitsy!” Charlotte sharply interrupted. “You know I would love to talk to you, but the fact is, I can’t—not about this or anything else to do with the case. I’m under strict orders from the D.A. not to discuss it with anyone.”
Charlotte hesitated only a moment, then, “And my goodness, just look at the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late. I’ll have to call you back later, okay? You take care and enjoy that granddaughter of yours. Bye now.”
Without giving Bitsy a chance to reply, Charlotte deliberately hung up the receiver. Even as she prayed that the old lady wouldn’t call back, she immediately felt a twinge of guilt for her uncharitable attitude.
Bitsy was simply lonely, an elderly lady with too much time on her hands. But it hadn’t always been that way. Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans and the couple had led an active social life, even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, and all she had left was their son and two granddaughters.
Unfortunately, Bitsy’s son and one of the granddaughters lived in California, and the other granddaughter lived in New York. Bitsy, starved for human contact and companionship, had nothing better to do than to spend hours on the phone, calling around and collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.
When Charlotte returned to the kitchen, she paused by the table and glanced again at the headline. She’d stretched the truth a bit when she’d told Bitsy what the D.A. had said. He’d actually warned her against giving any press interviews about her association with the Dubuissons.
As if she would, she thought, deeply offended by just the thought. One of the first rules she insisted upon when she hired a new employee was complete confidentiality concerning her clients. Gossiping about clients was strictly forbidden and grounds for immediate dismissal. With Charlotte, it was a matter of principle, of pride, and just good business sense that her clientele trust her and her employees.
Charlotte’s gaze shifted to the article below the headline. Temptation, like forbidden fruit, beckoned. The D.A. had also cautioned her about letting anything she read or heard in the news influence her in any way. But surely it wouldn’t hurt just to read a few lines….
Curiosity killed the cat. Charlotte closed her eyes and groaned. Curiosity, along with disobedience, was also the ruin of Adam and Eve. Before she could change her mind, she snatched up the paper, marched to the pantry, and stuffed it into the trash can.
Besides, she thought as she pulled a box of raisin bran from the pantry shelf, her upcoming birthday was enough to be depressed about. She walked to the cabinet, set the box of cereal on the counter, then took milk and apple juice out of the refrigerator. Dredging up the whole horrible affair connected with the Dubuissons would only make matters worse.
After her bowl of cereal and glass of juice, Charlotte checked Sweety Boy’s supply of water and birdseed.
“My goodness, you’ve been a thirsty boy,” she told him as she removed the water trough. “And hungry,” she added, also removing the birdseed container.
Once both were replenished, she ran her forefinger over the little bird’s velvety head. “Pretty boy,” she crooned. “Say Sweety Boy’s a pretty boy.”
For an answer, the parakeet ducked her finger and sidled over to the narrow space between her wrist and the cage door. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she told him as she nudged him away from the door, then quickly eased her hand out of the cage. “I don’t have time to let you out this morning.” She quickly latched the door. “Tonight,” she promised. “I’ll let you out for a while tonight.”
Having taken care of the little parakeet, Charlotte rushed through her shower, then dressed. At her dressing table, she glared in the mirror at her hair. Just as she’d figured, it was sticking out all over her head, and she made a face at the image in the mirror.
Staring at her hair again reminded her of Louis Thibodeaux and what he’d said about Judith. As she switched on the curling iron, her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t so much what Louis had said as what he hadn’t said. From his tone, he’d given her the impression that he didn’t think much of his replacement, but that could mean any number of things.
She’d definitely call Judith, she decided, as she automatically began applying her makeup while waiting for the curling iron to heat. She’d definitely call her today.
Charlotte applied a touch of mascara to her lashes. Another call she needed to make was to the beauty shop. So write it down now, so you won’t forget.
Removing the pen and small notebook she always kept in her apron pocket, she quickly jotted down a reminder. Slipping the pen and notebook back inside the pocket, she glanced again at her reflection. For now, though, she’d just have to make do.
With a sigh, she began winding strands of her hair around the warm curling iron, and as she attempted to bring some kind of order to her messy hair, she began plotting how she would worm information out of Judith about her new partner. Like Louis, her niece could also be closemouthed and evasive when it suited her.
The short commute to work each morning was just one of the many advantages of living near the Garden District where most of her clients were located. Normally the drive to Marian Hebert’s house took less than ten minutes even with the usual bumper-to-bumper morning traffic on Magazine.
Charlotte was a bit ahead of schedule until she tried to turn onto Sixth Street; there, traffic was at a complete standstill. Craning her head, she could see swirling police lights about a half a block ahead.
She glanced in her rearview mirror, but already a line of vehicles had formed and she was blocked in. With a sigh of impatience, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Being prompt was another of her strict rules, but she still had plenty of time, she decided as she drummed a staccato rhythm with her fingers against the steering wheel.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the traffic began to slowly move once again. When she drove past the source of the blinking lights, her heart sank.
“And another one bites the dust,” she muttered, eying the crew of men who were clearing away the debris from a huge oak limb that had split off and fallen into the street.
Between the recent drought conditions in south Louisiana and the Formosan termite invasion, the huge oaks that had shaded the Garden District for almost a century didn’t stand a chance. Despite the city’s all-out effort to fight the destructive insects, a lot of damage had already been done, and at times, it seemed like a losing battle.
Last night had only been a small storm, and Charlotte shuddered to think what kind of damage a full-blown hurricane might cause. So far, New Orleans had lucked out, though, and contrary to dire predictions from the weather experts, the hurricanes that had formed since June had chosen other paths to wreak their destruction.
Minutes later, Charlotte pulled up alongside the curb in front of Marian’s house and parked. Though not as ostentatious as the Dubuissons’ home had been, Marian’s raised cottage type was just as grand in its own way. Like so many of the homes in the Garden District, it was over a century old and had been lovingly renovated as well as updated to accommodate all of the modern conveniences.
As typical of a raised cottage type, the original floor plan had been simple and consisted of four rooms, evenly arranged and separated by a wide center hall. Raised six to eight feet off the ground, the main living area was on the second level, with a staircase in front leading to the entrance.
Marian and her late husband had remodeled the home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.
From the back of her van, Charlotte removed her supply carrier. She let herself in
through the front gate then climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.
“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”
Immediate concern marred Charlotte’s face. “Marian, my goodness, what’s wrong?”
Not exactly the calm or serene type anyway, Marian looked even more flustered than usual. She was still dressed in her gown and robe, her pale face was devoid of makeup, and her dark hair looked as if she’d spent a hard night tossing and turning.
Marian backed away from the door so Charlotte could enter. “What’s not wrong would be a better question,” she answered, wringing her hands. “It’s days like this I really miss Bill. At times, I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she added in a whisper.
Charlotte made a sympathetic sound. It had been nine months since Marian’s husband had died in a freak accident involving a gas explosion at a house he was listing. Left with two young sons to raise, Marian now owned and operated the real estate company that had belonged to her husband before his death.
The company, according to Bitsy, had been failing miserably before Bill’s death, and Bill, according to the gossip mill, had either been outright murdered or had staged an elaborate suicide to look like an accidental death in order for Marian to collect his life insurance.
Charlotte chose to believe that Billy Joe Hebert’s death was simply a tragic accident. Nothing more, nothing less. The death of a loved one was hard enough to cope with without adding speculations that could do nothing but hurt the family even more, especially when there were children involved. Each time she thought about how vicious rumors and gossip could be, it left a sour taste in her mouth.
“B.J. did it again,” Marian continued in a quavery voice as she closed the door. A tear slid down her cheek. “What am I going to do about that boy?” she cried.
Chapter Three
Charlotte had only worked for Marian for five months. From the beginning, she’d discovered that the younger woman not only seemed fragile at times, but she often over-reacted to stressful situations. She’d thought Marian’s wide mood swings strange at first. But judging by the various vials of antidepressants and antianxiety medications she’d found when cleaning Marian’s bathroom one day, she’d decided that her employer was either bipolar or suffered from acute clinical depression.
Usually the medications kept Marian on an even keel. There had been times, though, like now, when Charlotte had smelled liquor on her breath, a definite no-no for someone with her mental problems, and to Charlotte’s way of thinking, a definite no-no for anyone at eight o’clock in the morning.
Marian pulled a tissue from her housecoat pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m at the end of my rope with that boy.”
“Now, now,” Charlotte soothed. “You’re upset right now, and when we’re upset, things sometimes seem a lot worse than they really are, especially when it concerns our children.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I—I just don’t know.” Marian shook her head. “You raised a son. Are they all so—so—” Marian threw up her hands.
“Unpredictable?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows as she filled in the blank. With a chuckle, she gave an exaggerated nod. “At times they are, along with aggravating, messy, loud, and just plain ornery, not to mention that they’ll eat you out of house and home. All boys go through a rebellious stage when they hit fifteen. And girls too.” Charlotte smiled, hoping to reassure the distraught woman. “Being rebellious is part of the requirement for being a teenager.”
“Even Hank?”
Charlotte nodded. “Even Dr. Hank LaRue, the great surgeon.” She grinned. “But don’t tell him I said so. He hates it when I remind him that he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.”
A tiny smile pulled at Marian’s lips, just the reaction Charlotte had hoped for. Though it was true that Hank had rebelled in his own way during his teenage years, it was also true that he’d never truly caused her the kind of heartache that Marian seemed to be experiencing with B.J.
Charlotte had always considered herself fortunate. Raising a child as a single parent wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination even under the best of circumstances. But unlike B.J., who’d at least had the benefit of having a father for the first fifteen years of his life, her Hank had never known his father.
Hank’s father…Don’t even go there, she told herself as she immediately slammed the mental door on the precious memories of her son’s father. Opening that door only made her sad, and she was depressed enough.
“And B.J.’s no different, just a typical teenage boy,” she continued. “It’s just his way of coping with changing hormones.” But even as Charlotte tried to reassure Marian, she was beginning to have her doubts.
“I don’t remember having all this trouble before Bill—before he—” Marian swallowed hard and pressed her lips into a tight line.
Charlotte patted her on the arm. “I’m sure that’s part of it. B.J. misses his father too. And I’m equally sure that some of his behavior is due to coping with his loss, but he’s a good boy and he’s going to be okay.”
“I wish I could believe that, but—” Marian shook her head. “I just can’t, not when things seem to be going from bad to worse. He’s failing in school, and just last week he got suspended for smoking. And now—now this!”
“This?”
Marian nodded. “He sneaked out again last night after curfew.”
“Again?”
Marian waved her hand. “I caught him sneaking out once before, but this time it was the police who caught him. Did you know the police have a Curfew Center on Rampart?” Without waiting for an answer, Marian shook her head. “Well, I didn’t, but I do now. I had to drag poor Aaron out of bed at midnight and go all the way over to Rampart to pick up B.J.—and that’s another thing. I’m going to have to cancel and reschedule an important appointment with a new client this morning because Aaron is—”
“Mom! Hurry!”
At the sound of the plaintive cry from Marian’s eight-year-old, she groaned, “Oh no, not again.” Giving Charlotte a harried look, she rushed down the hallway toward the boy’s bedroom. “Some kind of stomach virus,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s been throwing up off and on all night.”
Just seconds after Marian disappeared into the boy’s bedroom, Charlotte heard an awful retching sound. Poor little guy, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen. She’d have to remember to use gloves when she stripped Aaron’s bed and make sure she used disinfectant when she cleaned his bathroom. The last thing she needed or wanted was to catch a stomach virus.
The moment Charlotte stepped into the kitchen, she froze. From the looks of the room, it was hard to believe that she’d left it spotless on Wednesday, just two days ago. The entire kitchen was a disaster area. The stovetop was splattered with what appeared to be spaghetti sauce and grease, and there were dirty dishes everywhere…on the table, strewn along the countertops, piled haphazardly in the sink.
Charlotte frowned. How on earth could just three people use so many dishes? she wondered. Then she glanced at the floor and her frown deepened. She’d swept and mopped on Wednesday and had left it shiny clean. Now the light gray ceramic tile was marred with splotches of some unidentifiable dark liquid that had been spilled in front of the refrigerator, then again near the table. No one had bothered to wipe it up, and the stuff had congealed into a gooey glob.
Only one explanation for the mess made any sense, she decided. In spite of all the medications Marian was taking, her condition was getting worse. And that, along with B.J.’s escalating behavior problems, spelled real trouble.
Wondering how Marian would feel if she suggested that they might all benefit from some family counseling, Charlotte set down her supply carrier, then shoved up her sleeves.
It took almost an hour before Charlotte finally had the kitchen back in order. Giving the room a final inspection and a nod of approval, she turned her attention to the connecting family room.
Separat
ed from the kitchen by a row of cabinets and an island, the large room was messy but not really dirty the way the kitchen had been. After she’d straightened and dusted the room, she made a quick trip to her van to bring in her vacuum cleaner. Years of experience had taught her to use her own equipment, equipment she knew she could rely on to do the job right.
She had just shut off the vacuum cleaner when Aaron wandered in.
“Mom said if it was okay with you, I could watch Cartoon Network.”
“That’s fine, hon,” she told him, unplugging the vacuum. “I’m finished in here anyway.”
With his blond hair and blue eyes, the boy reminded her a lot of her nephew, Daniel, when he was Aaron’s age. Though not as mischievous as Daniel had been, Aaron was usually rosy-cheeked, full of life, and extremely talkative. Today, though, the eight-year-old was pale and listless as he wandered over to the sofa.
“How are you feeling?”
The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug then mumbled something that sounded like, “Okay.”
“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
He shook his head. “Mom said I couldn’t have anything for a while. She’s afraid I’ll throw up again.” From the sofa table, he picked up the TV clicker and pointed it at the television set. Sounds of Tweety Bird and Sylvester soon filled the room.
Deciding that now was as good a time as ever to clean Aaron’s room, Charlotte unplugged the vacuum. Retrieving her supply carrier and dragging the vacuum along behind her, she headed down the hallway.
The little boy’s room was a large one, and almost every inch of the floor was covered with either Legos, Hot Wheels, or the DragonballZ and Gundam Wing action figures that had been made famous by Japanese cartoons.
The moment she stepped inside, Charlotte wrinkled her nose against the distinctive sour smell. Since the bed had been stripped down to the mattress, and the sheets and comforter were piled in a corner, it didn’t take her long to figure out that Aaron had been sick all over the bed during the night. She figured that the bedding was more than likely the source of the stench.
Death Tidies Up Page 2
