Despite the distance between them, Charlotte wrinkled her nose when she caught a distinct whiff of alcohol. “Where are the boys?”
“Is it true?” Marian asked breathlessly, her eyes glittering with some emotion that Charlotte couldn’t readily identify. “Did you really find Drew Bergeron’s body at the Devilier house?”
Charlotte felt like groaning out loud as she stepped past Marian into the entrance hall.
“The story was splattered all over the front page of the Picayune yesterday,” Marian continued without waiting for a response. “But even before the story came out in the paper, I heard about it from Sam. He said he heard about it Saturday afternoon at the Rink when he stopped in for a cup of coffee.
“If you ask me,” Marian rushed on, “the S.O.B. got exactly what he deserved. But then, that’s exactly what I thought two years ago after his so-called plane crash.
“Well?” Marian grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “Is it true? Were you the one who found him? Please tell me you were and that he truly is dead this time.”
Charlotte was taken aback by Marian’s vehemence. But she was equally disturbed that her name was being connected with all of the gossip flying around—not to mention the clawlike grip Marian had on her arm.
Charlotte gently patted Marian’s hand. Then, under the pretense of setting down the supply carrier, she eased back a step to free herself from Marian’s grasp. Once she’d set her supplies down on the floor, she finally replied to Marian’s question. “I was in the house when Drew’s body was discovered. But I didn’t find him,” she avowed. “Rest assured, though, the body was definitely identified as Drew Bergeron.”
Since that was all she intended to say about the matter, Charlotte tried to change the subject.
“How’s Aaron feeling? What did the doctor have to say about him?”
“Aaron’s fine—nothing but a virus.” Marian dismissed the subject of her son’s illness with an impatient wave of her hand. “So if you didn’t find Drew, then who—”
“And B.J.’s okay too?” Charlotte interrupted, determined to change the subject. “He didn’t come down with the virus?”
“No!” Marian glared at her. “Aaron’s just fine,” she snapped. “B.J.’s just fine. I’m just fine. Now, who—”
At that moment the phone rang, interrupting further discussion, to Charlotte’s vast relief.
With a look of frustration, Marian spun away, marched to the extension, and jerked up the receiver.
Charlotte fully intended taking advantage of the phone call to make herself scarce. After all, she’d come there to work, not to gossip about Drew Bergeron. But a sudden gasp from Marian stopped her in her tracks.
“He’s been what?” Marian sputtered. As Marian listened to the reply, she paled and leaned heavily against the wall. “For fighting?” she whispered. “Fighting with who?” Several moments passed before Marian finally said, “Yes, of course I understand. I can come pick him up within the hour.”
When Marian finally hung up the receiver, she pushed away from the wall and turned to face Charlotte. “That was B.J.’s school,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “He’s been suspended for—for fighting, an—and I have to go get him.”
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Charlotte rushed over to her and wrapped her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “I just can’t believe that B.J. was fighting. Surely there’s been a mistake of some kind.”
Marian gave a one-shouldered shrug and swiped at the tears that had spilled over onto her cheeks. “I don’t find anything hard to believe anymore. But th-thanks, Charlotte.” She pulled away from Charlotte’s embrace. “Thanks anyway. Guess I’d better go get dressed.”
As Charlotte watched Marian walk away, her head down, her steps dragging as if she were wading through ankle-deep mud, her heart went out to the younger woman and to B.J. as well.
From all indications, the boy was well on his way to trouble with a capital T, and Marian, poor thing, was well on her way to the breaking point.
With a sigh, Charlotte picked up her supply carrier. “Such a shame,” she murmured. “A crying shame.”
Almost half an hour passed before Marian came looking for Charlotte to let her know she was leaving. Though makeup had been artfully applied to cover the dark circles beneath Marian’s eyes, and she had twisted her hair up and secured it into a presentable French roll, nothing could disguise the worried, defeated look in her eyes.
“If the phone rings, just let the machine pick up the calls,” she told Charlotte. “I don’t have any appointments this morning, but if anyone does drop by, I should be back within the hour.”
Once Marian left, Charlotte strategically placed the two candles she’d brought with her and lit them—one in Marian’s office, and one in the kitchen-living area—in hopes that the soothing scent would have time to permeate those portions of the house by the time Marian returned. Then she focused on the task of cleaning the stove.
If possible, the kitchen was in worse shape than she had found it in on Friday. Not only was the cooktop of the stove splattered and caked with what appeared to be dried spaghetti sauce, but something had boiled over and congealed in one of the drip plates.
The stove was all-electric, so it was simple enough to disassemble it. Since all four of the drip plates needed a good cleaning anyway, Charlotte filled the sink with hot, sudsy water and let them soak while she scrubbed the cooktop.
After she’d thoroughly scrubbed the stovetop, she liberally applied an appliance wax, a thick, creamy liquid that when rubbed off and polished would leave the whole stove glowing and would help make subsequent cleanups easier.
Charlotte had just begun wiping away the wax when a loud crash broke the silence. “What on earth,” she cried as she jerked her head around to stare toward the dining room.
Dropping the towel she’d been using onto the cabinet, she hurried toward the dining room.
The dining room was at the front of the house, and a large double window overlooked the porch and the street. The first thing she spotted was a small pile of lumber on the porch, lumber that hadn’t been there when she’d arrived earlier. Beyond the porch was a battered white truck parked behind her van.
“Of course,” she murmured, immediately recognizing the truck. It was only Sam making all the racket. From the looks of the planks, he’d brought in the load of lumber to do some repairs, probably to the porch, she decided, eyeing two cans of paint sitting beside the lumber. The last few times she’d swept it, she’d noticed that there were some rotting boards that needed replacing.
But where was he? Craning her head, she scanned the front yard. When she finally spotted him, he was coming around the corner of the house, headed back toward his truck.
She watched for a moment more until she saw him heave a large toolbox from the bed of the truck. Her curiosity satisfied, she returned to the kitchen.
As she finished cleaning the stove and the rest of the kitchen, she was able to trace Sam’s progress through the sounds she heard coming from the porch…the creaking of boards being pried loose, the whine of an electric saw, followed finally by the banging of a hammer.
Charlotte had finally finished in the kitchen and living area and was dusting and waxing the tables in the hallway when she heard the rattle of the back door screen, then the groan of the back door being opened.
“Charlotte!” Marian called out. “It’s just us.”
When Charlotte walked into the kitchen, Marian was unloading small boxes of food from a sack onto the kitchen counter. Her mouth watered at the smell of fried chicken wafting from the boxes. But when she glanced to her left and saw B.J. perched on one of the bar stools at the island that separated the kitchen from the living area, all thoughts of food were forgotten.
He gave her a sullen look. The white knit shirt he wore was filthy and spotted with what she could only guess was dried blood. But it was his bruised and puffy face, along with the large bandage he was sporting just above his swollen r
ight eye, that made her wince with sympathetic pain.
Marian glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, hey, Charlotte. I see that Sam started on the porch. Did anyone call or drop by?”
Charlotte dragged her gaze away from B.J. and shook her head. “No calls, no visitors,” she answered.
“That’s good,” Marian continued, “because things took a bit longer than I expected.” She motioned toward her son. “As you can see, B.J. had a nasty cut, so we had to make a side trip by the doctor’s office. Had to wait an eternity, but thank goodness he only needed a couple of stitches.” She pointed to the boxes on the cabinet. “Since it’s so close to lunchtime, I went ahead and picked up some Popeye’s chicken. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte told her. “I’m really tempted, but I’ve put on a couple of pounds, so I guess I’d better stick to the salad I brought.”
Then, placing her hands on her hips, Charlotte abruptly turned her attention back to B.J. “Well, young man,” she said. “I certainly hope the other guy looks at least as bad as you do.”
“Don’t encourage him, Charlotte,” Marian warned. “He’s in enough trouble as it is.”
“Believe me, encouraging him to fight is the last thing I’d do. Well?” she addressed B.J. again. “Does he? Does he look as bad as you do? Did he have to get stitches?”
When B.J. finally shook his head, Charlotte leveled a stern, narrow-eyed look at him. “Then what was the point?”
“He started it,” the teenager blurted out defensively.
“And you finished it by getting yourself beat up. Like I said before, what was the point?” She let him mull it over a moment. Then, with a sympathetic smile on her face, she moved closer. “You know sometimes it takes more courage just to walk away than to fight,” she said gently. “Fighting doesn’t always solve the problem, and knowing when to fight and when to walk away is one of the real differences between being a boy and being a man.”
Charlotte didn’t kid herself that B.J. would necessarily take her advice or even listen to her homegrown philosophy. She could only hope that emphasizing the differences between being a man and a boy would make an impression, especially since she suspected that trying to be the man of the family was one of B.J.’s problems. She’d raised a son and the signs were all there. She also knew that sometimes just planting a small seed of wisdom did a lot more good than an all-out lecture.
“Just think about it, okay?” Moving even closer, she asked, “So—are we still friends?” After a brief hesitation, when he finally nodded, Charlotte grinned and held out her hand, palm side up. “Well, then, give me five, my friend.”
Though he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and let out an indignant groan, he finally relented and slapped his hand against hers.
“All right, out of sight!” she drawled, which produced yet another indignant groan.
“Go wash up, B.J.,” Marian interrupted. “And change your shirt. It’s almost time to eat.”
Though B.J. cast a resentful look at his mother, he did as he was told.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Marian turned to Charlotte. “Any suggestions?” she asked.
Because of Charlotte’s experience with the Dubuisson family, the last thing she wanted or needed was to get sucked into yet another client’s personal life or problems. But this situation was different, she told herself. There was just no way she could ignore it, not when the welfare of two children was at stake. Marian was sick, possibly mentally ill from all accounts. Grown-ups and their problems were one thing, but when it came to children…
Charlotte didn’t even try to pretend that she didn’t know what Marian was talking about. “Have you thought about some professional counseling?”
“Oh, I’ve thought about it, but B.J. would never cooperate in a million years.”
Whether Marian had genuinely misunderstood or had deliberately misunderstood was hard to tell; Charlotte couldn’t be sure. Since she couldn’t be sure, she suddenly found herself reluctant to correct her employer’s assumption. Still…there was more than one way to get a point across.
“You’re probably right,” Charlotte agreed. “B.J. might not cooperate, not if he thought he was being singled out. But what if you used another approach? What if you made it a family affair and all of you went in for some counseling sessions?”
The expression on Marian’s face was contemplative, as if she were seriously considering Charlotte’s suggestion. She was about to answer when, much to Charlotte’s frustration and disappointment, the chimes of the front doorbell interrupted.
Marian, looking as frustrated as Charlotte felt, said, “I’d better see who that is.”
Since Charlotte needed to finish waxing one of the tables in the entrance hall anyway, she followed Marian.
When Marian opened the front door, Charlotte’s mouth dropped open at the sight of the couple standing on the other side of the threshold. What on earth were they doing here? she wondered as shock turned into an uneasy feeling of dread deep in the pit of her stomach.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlotte’s imagination went wild as one terrible scenario after another ran rampant through her mind. Surely the only reason for Louis and Judith showing up where she worked was because something horrible had happened to one of the family…Hank…Madeline…Daniel…
But after only the briefest nod of recognition, Judith turned to address Marian instead. Only then did Charlotte remember to breathe again.
“Mrs. Hebert, I’m Detective Monroe with the New Orleans Police Department.”
With a confused frown, Marian stared hard at Judith, then turned to stare at Charlotte. Even without Marian saying a word, Charlotte could tell from her confused frown what she was thinking. The resemblance between Charlotte and her niece was amazing. More times than not, to Madeline’s constant aggravation, anyone meeting Judith for the first time wrongly assumed that Charlotte and Judith were mother and daughter instead of aunt and niece.
“And this is Detective Thibodeaux,” Judith continued. We’re here—”
“Who’s at the door, Mom?” B.J. stepped out of his room near the end of the hall and shuffled past Charlotte to where his mother was standing. He’d changed from his soiled shirt and chinos into a pair of baggy jeans shorts and a T-shirt, Charlotte noted with satisfaction.
But Marian’s mouth tightened with irritation as she glared at her son. “Detectives from the police department, son.” She gave Judith an apologetic look. “Sorry. Now, what were you saying?”
“I was saying that—”
“What do the cops want with us?” B.J. blurted out as he glared first at Judith, then at Louis.
“B.J.! Mind your manners,” his mother admonished. “Now apologize to Detective Monroe for being so rude.”
“I wasn’t rude, and I didn’t do anything,” he all but snarled. “So why do I have to apologize, especially to a couple of stupid cops?”
“B.J.! Stop it!”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Marian told him firmly between gritted teeth. “Now go to your room, young man.”
When B.J. didn’t budge, Marian took a step toward him. “Go now!” she ordered, a warning tone of or else in her voice.
For a moment, Charlotte wasn’t sure who was going to win the battle of wills, but finally B.J. relented. With daggers of resentment shooting from his eyes, he whirled around, and muttering what Charlotte could only guess were expletives beneath his breath, he stomped off down the hallway.
He didn’t go to his room, though, Charlotte noticed. At the last second, he abruptly changed directions and headed into the kitchen instead. But Marian had already turned back to Judith and Louis, so she didn’t see that he had disobeyed her.
“Again, I’m so sorry,” she told Judith. “Come in, come in,” she said, motioning for the two detectives to come inside. With a sigh of defeat, she added, “And please excuse my son.” She pulled the door clos
ed behind them. “My husband was killed back in January, and my son was here when the police came to inform us of his death. Unfortunately, he heard all of the grisly details, and ever since, he gets this way whenever he sees a policeman.” She shrugged. “I guess seeing or being around the police brings back all the painful memories for him.”
“I’m sure it does,” Judith murmured, her eyes narrowed in an expression that Charlotte recognized all too well, an expression that said Judith wasn’t buying the excuse.
Marian sighed again. “Now, how can I help you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Drew Bergeron,” Louis said, stepping up beside Judith, “and it’s our understanding that your real estate company is handling the rentals of the Devilier apartments.”
While Marian talked, Louis kept shooting reproachful glances Charlotte’s way, glances that irritated her, but made her feel self-conscious and conspicuous as well. Since she had finished waxing the table anyway, and since her initial curiosity had been satisfied as to why Judith and Louis had shown up at Marian’s, she decided that now was as good a time as any to make herself scarce.
But Charlotte didn’t go far, just to the dining room. There, she was out of sight but still within hearing distance of the conversation taking place in the entrance hall.
As Louis began questioning Marian about potential clients who had shown an interest in the apartments, a movement just outside the front dining-room window caught Charlotte’s attention. Curious, she stepped closer, just in time to see B.J. drop down into one of the wicker chairs on the porch. The chair was located near enough to the front door that he could probably hear the conversation between the detectives and his mother even though it was closed.
At first she thought his actions were a bit strange, but then she figured that like her, he was simply curious as to what the detectives were doing there. Charlotte turned away and began the tasks of dusting and waxing the mahogany extension-leaf table.
It was while she was clearing off the centerpiece that another, more plausible excuse came to mind. Maybe, just maybe, B.J. was afraid that the police showing up had something to do with the fight he’d been in at school.
Death Tidies Up Page 12
