Out in the hall, Charlotte heard Judith say, “We’d like a list of anyone who might have access to keys to the house.”
“No need for a list,” she heard Marian respond. “Besides myself, only two others had keys. Jefferson—Jefferson Harper, the owner—has a master set, and Drew’s wife, Katherine, picked up a set on Friday afternoon. Katherine was thinking about buying one of the apartments to use for out-of-town guests, mostly during Mardi Gras,” she explained. “Since I couldn’t show her the apartments myself on Friday because of a doctor’s appointment, I told Katherine she could pick up the keys and look around on her own.”
“Mrs. Hebert, we understand that you and your husband were friends with the Bergerons. Were you close friends?”
The question came from Louis, and as Marian explained about the former relationship between the two couples, for the first time since Louis and Judith had arrived, it suddenly dawned on Charlotte that Judith’s new partner, Will Richeaux, should have been with Judith instead of Louis. So where was Will? she wondered. And why was Louis there instead?
Once again, Charlotte wondered about the obvious antagonism between Louis and Will that she’d witnessed on Saturday.
She’d have to remember to ask Judith later. Yeah, right, she thought uneasily. The way her memory was lately, she’d probably forget…again.
Since Charlotte had finished in the dining room but didn’t want to disturb the group in the hall, she resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing more she could do for the moment but wait until Judith and Louis had finished questioning Marian.
Maybe this would be a good time to take a lunch break. Usually she enjoyed eating her lunch out on the front porch in the fresh air. Then she remembered that Sam had been working out there, and the last time she’d looked, B.J. was still on the porch too.
Hoping that Sam had finished by now and that B.J. had grown tired of just sitting and eavesdropping, Charlotte wandered over to the window to check out the situation.
To her disappointment, B.J. was still slouched in the wicker chair. So where was Sam?
In the hall, Marian was talking, nonstop, about the business relationship between her husband and Drew Bergeron. That Marian was bitter was more than evident, and though she didn’t exactly come right out and say it, it was plain that she blamed Drew Bergeron for her husband’s state of mind before his accident.
Charlotte was so caught up in what Marian was saying that the sudden appearance of Sam within her view gave her a start. Even if she hadn’t noticed the can of paint he was carrying, it was obvious from the smears on his overalls that he’d been painting, and even more obvious that he’d finished the task as he began gathering the tools lying near the toolbox.
If he was finished, though, then she might be able to eat her salad on the porch after all…except that B.J. was still there.
Sam closed up the toolbox, but instead of loading it back into his truck, he approached B.J. After a few words to the teenager, he turned and walked to the steps. Within moments, B.J. pushed himself out of the chair and followed Sam. Then the two of them disappeared around the corner of the house together.
It was almost four when Charlotte turned onto her street that afternoon. So much for the soothing scent of the lavender candles, she thought. Her restless night combined with work and the tensions between Marian and B.J. had left her feeling drained, and definitely not soothed.
Maybe once she was home, she’d forgo her usual shower and take a long, relaxing hot bath instead. Maybe she’d even start on that new Joanne Fluke mystery she’d picked up the last time she was in the Garden District Bookshop.
Yep, Charlotte decided, a hot soak in the tub and a good book were always a surefire way to relax and forget…
And what about Cheré? You told her to meet you at five.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. Today of all days, the last thing she felt like doing was getting embroiled in yet another human being’s personal problems.
Charlotte glanced at the dashboard clock. She could always cancel the meeting. She was almost home, and it was just a little past four. Maybe there was still time if she hurried.
Charlotte pressed her foot a little harder against the accelerator and was halfway down her block when she spotted the tan Toyota parked in front of her house. Her heart sank. It was too late. Cheré was already there waiting for her.
But why was Cheré there so early? she wondered. She was almost certain that she’d left word that they were to meet at five, not four…well, almost certain.
Warning spasms of alarm erupted within Charlotte, quickly followed by the same uneasy feeling that had plagued her for weeks. Had she told Cheré four o’clock and just thought she’d said five? Was this yet another example of her forgetfulness lately?
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered. “This is ridiculous!” One way or another, she’d find out for sure on Tuesday when she kept her doctor’s appointment, so why borrow trouble? Besides, she had other, more pressing things to worry about at the moment, mainly Cheré. Somehow, some way, she had to find the right words to tell Cheré about the Roussels.
As Charlotte turned into her driveway, Cheré waved to her from the porch swing, and Charlotte, forcing a smile she didn’t feel, waved back.
Once she’d parked the van, she locked it. Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath, she headed toward the porch.
“Hey, Charlotte.”
“Hey, yourself,” Charlotte answered as she climbed the steps. “Have you been waiting long?”
Cheré shook her head. “Just got here a few minutes ago,” she answered, pushing out of the swing. “I know you said five in your message, but I took a chance that you wouldn’t mind if I came by a little early.”
“Of course!” Charlotte suddenly gushed, so relieved that she felt like shouting. “You are early, aren’t you? And no, I don’t mind. No siree, I don’t mind at all.”
Cheré gave her a strange look. “Charlotte? Are you okay?”
Charlotte figured that the poor girl probably thought she was either drunk or high on something, but she really didn’t want to have to explain. She waved away Cheré’s concern.
“I’m fine,” she told her. “Just a bit—ah, overtired,” she quickly improvised. “Haven’t you ever been so tired that you either started acting silly or got the giggles?”
“I guess,” Cheré answered, not looking very convinced.
The moment Charlotte unlocked and opened the front door, Sweety Boy started his usual routine of squawking and preening to get her attention. But unlike most days, Charlotte ignored the little bird as she switched on the light, then set down her purse.
Cheré followed her inside and pulled the door closed behind her. “You haven’t had any more fainting spells, have you?”
Charlotte shook her head as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into the soft moccasins beside the front door. “No fainting spells. Just—” She shrugged. “Just tired.” She motioned toward the sofa. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink. Iced tea okay with you?”
“Sounds great,” Cheré responded as she sank down on the sofa.
Minutes later, Charlotte returned with two tall glasses of tea.
“So what’s up?” Cheré asked as she accepted the glass Charlotte handed her. “Why did you want to see me?”
Charlotte settled in the chair opposite the sofa. With a sigh, she plunged in. “I don’t know any way to say this but straight out. But please, just remember that I’m not being nosy. I just care about you and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Cheré frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, hon. Not yet. But you will…I hope. You see, over the past few days I’ve been hearing some really disturbing things about your friend, Todd, and his father. Things that I think you need to know about.”
Cheré’s frown deepened. “What kind of things? And from who?”
Charlotte explained about the conversations she’d h
ad with Louis and Judith, and she repeated the things she’d been told about the Roussels. To Cheré’s credit, she didn’t flinch or interrupt, or even offer a word of protest.
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t interfere,” Charlotte assured her when she had finished. “But whether the allegations are true or not, my main concern is for you. I’m not blaming you, mind you, but if I had known all of this stuff before, I’m not so sure I would have accepted the Devilier job. And now, with everything that’s happened, I’m wishing I’d never heard of the Devilier house or Drew Bergeron.”
For long seconds, Cheré simply stared at Charlotte. Then, to Charlotte’s utter distress, the girl’s eyes filled with tears that overflowed down her cheeks.
“Oh, hon—” Charlotte moved immediately to the sofa. She set her glass down on the coffee table and put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Please don’t think I’m blaming you, because I’m not. I know this is upsetting, but I just couldn’t stand by and not say anything. I care too much about you.”
Cheré closed her eyes and shook her head. “Not upset—not with you.” She bowed her head. “Mostly upset with myself. I’ve known for some time that something was wrong, that Todd and his father weren’t…” Her voice trailed away. “It’s just that finally, I had someone of my own, someone—” She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain.”
She opened her eyes and turned to Charlotte. “I know you mean well, Charlotte, and it’s not that I don’t believe you, but it’s just been a long time since I had anyone who cared enough to—” She hesitated, then continued. “My mom died when I was twelve, and after she died, my dad—Well, he did the best he could, but with three other children besides me and his job, he’s just never had a lot of time. I’ve been kind of on my own, and—” Suddenly, she leaned over and hugged Charlotte. “Thanks,” she whispered against Charlotte’s shoulder. “Thanks for caring.”
Charlotte was beyond words as tears filled her own eyes and painful memories filled her head. Like Cheré, she knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. All within the space of a couple of years she’d lost the man she’d loved with all of her heart, then she’d lost her beloved parents. She knew all too well how it felt to be all alone without anyone to care about you. And she understood.
Charlotte swallowed hard and sniffed back the tears. “No thanks required,” she finally told Cheré when she could speak again. “Like I said before, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“What a Difference a Day Makes.” Charlotte hummed the tune of the old song as she turned down First Street on Tuesday morning. It had been one of her mother’s favorites, and for whatever reason, she’d awakened with the song playing in her head.
The lyrics of the song were right on, she thought. Just one day, along with a good night’s sleep, could make a huge difference in a person’s whole outlook.
Once Cheré had left, Charlotte had treated herself to a long, luxurious bath and a light supper of cheese, fruit, and crackers. Then she’d curled up in bed with the mystery novel she’d been wanting to read. She’d only gotten through the first two chapters when she realized that she either had to quit reading or she’d end up pulling an all-nighter, just to discover who the killer was. But the whole process had relaxed her just enough so that when she did turn out the lights, she fell asleep almost immediately. And she’d stayed asleep until her alarm sounded that morning.
Now if only she didn’t have to face Bitsy Duhe, she thought, easing off the accelerator as she approached Bitsy’s house. Like Bitsy, the raised-cottage-style Greek Revival was old; according to the old lady, the house had been built in the mid-eighteen-hundreds.
Charlotte sighed heavily. She hadn’t returned the old lady’s phone call, and knowing Bitsy as she did, she would have a million questions about the discovery of Drew Bergeron’s body. Any and every tidbit of information would be grist for Bitsy’s gossip mill.
“But I don’t want to talk about Drew Bergeron,” Charlotte muttered as she pulled alongside the curb and parked. And you sound like a petulant child, an inner voice taunted.
Maybe so, she argued back, but for once, she didn’t care. All she wanted was to forget that she’d ever seen Drew Bergeron, to wipe the memory of his half-naked body and his dead eyes from her mind forever.
Charlotte barely had time to park the van in front of Bitsy’s house when the elderly lady appeared at the doorway, then stepped out onto the gallery. Bitsy was a spry, birdlike woman, and as usual, she was wearing one of her many loose, midcalf floral dresses.
The minute Charlotte emerged from the van, Bitsy waved at her. “Do hurry up, Charlotte,” she called out in her squeaky voice. “I’ve fixed a fresh batch of muffins, but we need to eat them while they’re hot. And we can talk,” she added.
Oh, great. Just what I need—muffins full of calories and fat grams to go along with a conversation about a dead man. The minute the sarcastic thought entered Charlotte’s mind, guilt reared its ugly head. Be nice, now. She’s an old lady, and she really doesn’t mean any harm.
“Be there in just a sec,” Charlotte spoke up as she unloaded her supply carrier from the back of the van.
A few moments later, as Charlotte climbed the steps leading to the front gallery, she couldn’t help noticing that something about Bitsy was different. She looked younger and…happier was the only word she could think of.
Then suddenly it hit her. Of course! Bitsy had changed her hairstyle. For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the old lady had worn her hair pulled straight back into a tight little bun that she secured at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided in Charlotte that pulling her hair back so tightly helped smooth out the wrinkles around her eyes and was like getting an instant face-lift.
“Why, Miss Bitsy, you’ve had your hair cut,” she drawled, then smiled. “I love it. I absolutely love it. That shorter look is just beautiful.”
Preening at the compliment, Bitsy reached up and patted her hair. “That’s thanks to your girl, Valerie, down at the Lagniappe Beauty Salon,” she quipped.
“Oh, right—Valerie. Of course,” Charlotte murmured, her smile fading as she followed Bitsy inside. “Now that you mention it, I believe I do recall her telling me that you had switched over to—”
“Didn’t you get my message, Charlotte?”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Message?”
“Now that’s strange. I called you on Sunday and left a message.”
Charlotte neither denied nor confirmed that she’d gotten the message. “What was it you needed?” she asked innocently as she followed Bitsy into the house. Liar, liar, pants on fire, a voice whispered in her head, and shame washed through her. She’d always despised the act of lying. And she’d always figured that lying by omission and outright lying were the same thing.
“Why, I wanted to know all about Drew Bergeron. What else?”
Charlotte purposely ignored the statement. “When did you get your hair cut?” she asked, hoping to steer Bitsy onto something else, anything else but rehashing the events that had taken place on Saturday. “I just can’t get over how lovely it looks.”
“Friday morning, and Jenny—you remember, that’s the granddaughter who lives in New York, the one who visited this weekend—well, she really liked it a lot too. Said it made me look twenty years younger.” The old lady suddenly giggled. “She also said I was a real hip granny now.”
Charlotte smiled again as she set down her supply carrier in the kitchen. “Well, it does look nice on you,” she acknowledged. “Valerie is a very talented stylist.”
“And so smart,” Bitsy added, as she bustled over to the cabinet. “How many muffins can you eat?”
“Ah, Miss Bitsy, I—”
“Now I won’t take no for an answer. They’re blueberry. It’s a new recipe I got out of a book I’m reading—”
Charlotte cleared her throat, interrupting. “The title of that book doesn’t happen to be Blueberry Muffin Murder by Joanne Fluke, does it?”
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“My goodness, Charlotte, how did you know?”
Charlotte smiled. “I’m reading it too.”
Bitsy beamed. “Well, then, you simply must try one or two. I baked them in my new toaster oven and I’m dying to get your opinion—on the oven, that is. According to the advertisement it’s supposed to bake just as good as a regular oven but use half the electricity—not that I always believe everything I read.”
Typically Bitsy, and to Charlotte’s relief, the old lady momentarily forgot about Drew Bergeron and took off on a tangent about how cautious elderly people needed to be about advertisements these days. To be polite, Charlotte tried to pretend interest, but her eyes strayed to the newest addition in a long line of kitchen gadgets that Bitsy had accumulated over the years.
Bitsy’s entire kitchen was a maid’s nightmare, not because it was especially dirty or messy, since the elderly lady adhered to the old philosophy of a place for everything and everything in its place, but because it contained every modern kitchen gadget imaginable, all of which collected dust and grease.
As best Charlotte could recall, at last count, Bitsy already owned two toaster ovens, both of which sat on a special shelf that she’d had built to display all of the appliances that wouldn’t fit on the over-crowded countertops.
When Bitsy finally finished her tirade about misleading advertisements, she paused long enough to thrust a plate containing two muffins at Charlotte. “Here. Now try these and tell me what you think. Then, I want to hear all about Drew Bergeron.”
Charlotte’s heart sank as she accepted the plate and seated herself at the kitchen table. In hopes of delaying what was beginning to look like the inevitable, she took a huge bite out of one of the pastries. Maybe if she kept her mouth full, then she wouldn’t have to talk, at least not for a little while longer.
“I was going to bake them for Jenny, and get her opinion,” Bitsy continued, “but never got the chance.” She seated herself across from Charlotte. “Jenny was out so late Saturday night, and it was almost noon before she woke up. By then it was lunchtime.”
Death Tidies Up Page 13
