Maid for Murder

by Barbara Colley

  With Hank gone, Charlotte figured she just might be able to find out more. She might even be able to work the conversation around to the subject of children.

  Charlotte glanced at her watch, then groaned. “The evening might still be young,” she said regretfully, “but I’m not—not young, that is, and I have to be on a job by seven tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not old, either, not by today’s standards.”

  Charlotte grinned. “I wish you’d help me convince my son of that. He thinks I need to retire and let him take care of me.”

  “I know,” Carol told her softly. “But Hank just loves you, Charlotte. He really hates seeing you work so hard.”

  So they had discussed her, thought Charlotte. Interesting. Interesting indeed.

  “And what do you think?” Charlotte asked.

  “I think you should do what you want to do, and I’ve told Hank as much.”

  On impulse, Charlotte gave the younger woman a quick hug. “Carol, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

  Carol returned the hug eagerly. “I hope so. I certainly hope so.”

  Charlotte stepped back. “But hey, listen. Just because Hank and I have to leave doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stay and enjoy yourself.”

  Carol shook her head. “Nope! If you’re not staying, then I’m not, either. It just wouldn’t be any fun without Hank or you.”

  Bitsy Duhe lived on the same street as the vampire novelist Anne Rice. Charlotte glanced at the author’s house as she passed it the following morning. Though vampires weren’t exactly her choice of reading material, she still hoped one day to meet the famous lady who wrote about them. A grin tugged at her lips. She’d even had a fantasy or two about working for her.

  A few houses farther down, Charlotte parked in front of Bitsy’s house. Surrounded by huge azalea bushes filled with dark pink blooms, the house was a very old raised-cottage-style Greek Revival.

  Bitsy was already outside, standing on the front gallery. As usual, Bitsy had on yet another of her flowered dresses. With her were two men dressed in jeans and matching khaki shirts.

  Also as usual, Bitsy was talking a mile a minute. Even as she waved a greeting to Charlotte, her mouth never stopped moving.

  Charlotte immediately recognized one of the men as Joseph O’Connor, a well-known Garden District gardener. Joseph occasionally worked for Bitsy, but he also worked for several of Charlotte’s other clients.

  Who was the younger man with Joseph? she wondered. And why did the tall sandy-haired man look vaguely familiar? As far as she knew, Joseph worked alone most of the time. Of course, it was always possible that the gardener had finally decided to hire a helper, especially since he was getting on in years.

  “But aren’t we all?” Charlotte grumbled as she stepped out of the van.

  After gathering the supplies she would need, Charlotte took a deep breath of the cool morning air. Too bad it wouldn’t stay cool, she thought as she locked the van, then approached the steps leading up to the front gallery. By afternoon, the heat of the sun, combined with the humidity, would rival a sauna. And before the month of May ended, even the early mornings would be hot and muggy, typical New Orleans weather.

  Even as Charlotte nodded at the two men when she passed them, the feeling that she knew the younger man grew even stringer He was older than she’d first thought Up close the fine lines around his piercing green eyes were more visible and defined, and she detected just a bit of gray around his temples.

  Where had she seen him before?

  Charlotte prided herself on her keen awareness of details, especially the faces of people she met and the names that went along with those faces. Being unable to recall where she’d seen the younger man before was puzzling. She should have been able to shrug it off, but for reasons she couldn’t fathom, it disturbed her that she couldn’t identify him.

  Chapter Four

  Though Bitsy’s house was large, it wasn’t hard to maintain. A strong believer in the old cliché, a place for everything and everything in its place, she was basically a neat lady. In spite of her efforts, however, the house, like its owner, was old. Coping with the accumulation of dust and cobwebs was an ongoing battle.

  In the kitchen, Charlotte filled the sink with warm water and added a healthy measure of degreaser. Bitsy’s kitchen was a nightmare, containing every modern kitchen gadget imaginable. She’d even had additional shelves built so she could display the vast collection, all of which seemed to draw dust and grease like metal drew magnets.

  “Charlotte! Oh, Charlotte, where are you?”

  Charlotte flinched at the sound of Bitsy’s squeaky voice. Giving the electric juicer one last swipe, she then started wiping down the bread machine. She had hoped the older lady would spend a bit more time with the gardener and leave her in peace.

  “Charlotte!”

  “In the kitchen,” Charlotte called out.

  Seconds later, Bitsy bustled through the doorway. “Did you see my new carousel rotisserie?” She patted a large dome-shaped machine near the end of the cabinet. “It just arrived day before yesterday and makes cooking chicken a breeze. If you’ll remind me before you leave, I’ll give you a sample to take home with you.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but—”

  “Not generous,” Bitsy said matter-of-factly. “Just practical. I don’t like to eat frozen stuff, and I can’t possibly eat the three chickens I experimented on by myself.”

  Charlotte hid a smile as she moved over to the sink to rinse out the washcloth she’d been using. It would never occur to Bitsy to cook only what she could eat, especially when she was trying out one of her new gadgets.

  The sudden intrusion of noise from the lawn mower in the backyard should have made further conversation impossible. Not so with Bitsy. Though the old lady did move out of Charlotte’s way and hurried over to the window instead so she could keep an eagle eye on the gardener, she kept right on talking, only louder.

  “. . . so glad . . . Brian finally . . . home. Joseph’s arthritis . . . needs his son . . .”

  Trying to follow Bitsy’s ongoing monologue on top of the noisy mower was almost impossible. From the little Charlotte could make out, she deduced that the man she’d seen with Joseph was the gardener’s son, Brian O’Connor. But Brian didn’t much resemble his father, and discovering his identity still didn’t explain why he seemed so familiar.

  “... such a shame . . . prison . . . didn’t do it . . .”

  Abruptly, the outside noise stopped. But Bitsy didn’t miss a beat.

  “. . . poor boy wasted five years of his life stuck in prison, and all because of that awful Andrew St. Martin.”

  Charlotte’s hand stilled at the mention of Jeanne’s father, and she turned to face Bitsy. “But Mr. St. Martin died fifteen years ago.”

  Bitsy nodded. “Of course he did,” she continued, seeming to relish Charlotte’s undivided attention. “Andrew was murdered fifteen years ago, which was after the five years that Brian served in prison. He was murdered just about the time Brian was finally released.”

  Charlotte indicated that she understood with a nod, but Bitsy didn’t slow down or miss a beat.

  “Lordy me, I still remember when Brian was convicted and sent away,” she continued. “Poor Joseph moped around for weeks. I felt so sorry for that man—for both of them. To this day he still claims that Brian didn’t do it, that he was set up. He said that Brian might be guilty of a lot of things, but he wasn’t a thief no matter what Andrew told the police.”

  Bitsy made a sound of disgust. “That Andrew was a piece of work, though. If I’m lying, I’m dying, but he was nasty through and through. Not only was he mean as a snake to Clarice and Jeanne, but he didn’t care who got hurt just as long as he got what he wanted. And one thing he didn’t want was Brian sniffing around his daughter.”

  Charlotte frowned. Following Bitsy’s ping-pong monologue was like being lost in a maze. “Are you talking about J
eanne . . . and the gardener’s son, before Andrew was murdered?”

  Bitsy nodded her head. “Of course that’s who I’m talking about. My goodness, Charlotte, pay attention. According to Joseph, Brian and Jeanne were planning on running off together, but old Andrew put a stop to it and got rid of Brian, all in one fell swoop. Claimed that Brian stole some valuable tools. Humph!” Bitsy took on an affronted look. “As if Andrew St. Martin ever touched any kind of tool in his life. Well, the tools were found in Brian’s truck, all right, but Brian swore that Andrew put them there. Poor Brian might as well’ve been whistling Dixie. That boy never had a chance, especially since Andrew and the judge presiding over Brian’s trial were big golfing buddies.

  “But you mark my words.” Bitsy shook her finger. “What goes around in this life comes around, and people get paid back for the things they do. Yes, siree, old Andrew St. Martin got his.”

  “Because he was murdered?”

  Again, Bitsy nodded, a smug look on her face. “Whoever did it broke right in through the French doors, robbed the safe, then bashed Andrew in the head. They found him the next morning slumped over his desk. Some say he had to be drunk as a skunk, since it didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight.”

  In her mind’s eye, Charlotte had no trouble picturing the horrible scenario, and a sick feeling curled in her stomach.

  But Bitsy wasn’t through. She leaned closer to Charlotte in a conspiratorial manner. “They tried to pin it on his wife, Clarice, you know. Said she had either done it herself or hired it to be done, all because Andrew was getting ready to hand over everything to his new son-in-law, Jackson.”

  The old lady grinned. “Clarice fooled them all, though. She had an alibi. And since the murder weapon was never found, there wasn’t a dad-gum thing they could do.”

  “Alibi? What kind of alibi?” Charlotte found herself asking.

  “Not what. Who? Jeanne. Jeanne was Clarice’s alibi. Swore that she and her mother were together that whole evening. Said Clarice had been sick with a stomach flu and she’d nursed her mother that whole night long.”

  What Bitsy had divulged was shocking. Though Charlotte kept reminding herself that half of what Bitsy said was probably pure gossip, she couldn’t help being fascinated by the old lady’s story.

  “So what about Brian?” she asked. “What happened to him—after prison, I mean?”

  “Joseph wanted him to come work with him, but Brian seemed to think it would be best if he went somewhere else, somewhere he could make a clean start. So he took off for California—built up his own gardening service out there. But now that Joseph’s arthritis is so bad, Brian finally agreed to come back and help his father out until next month, when Joseph plans to retire.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Seems to me that the police would have suspected Brian of the murder, seeing that it was because of Andrew that he was sent to prison in the first place.”

  Bitsy made a sound of frustration. “No, no, no. Brian didn’t get out until the day after Andrew was murdered. Didn’t I already say that?”

  Bitsy had once confided in Charlotte that she worried about Alzheimer’s and senility because of her advanced age, and she prided herself on her memory. Since the older lady was looking more distressed with each passing moment, Charlotte decided against pointing out that she had been vague about the specific date of Brian’s release from prison. To Charlotte, the omission wasn’t a big deal, anyway, but she sensed that it would be to Bitsy, so she simply shrugged instead and decided to change the subject.

  “Is there anything in particular you want me to give extra attention to this morning?”

  For a moment, Bitsy looked confused; then she brightened. “I’m putting my granddaughter in the pink guest room—the one with my doll collection in it. That’s where she used to stay when she was a little girl. Just make sure you change the sheets on the bed and make sure you use lemon oil on everything. I just love the smell of lemon oil . . .”

  Bitsy immediately launched into a monologue on the advantages of using lemon oil versus the modem spray waxes, but Charlotte let the rest of what she said wash right over her. Gathering her supplies, she moved into the living-room area.

  As usual, Bitsy followed her every footstep. And as usual, the only breaks she got from the old lady’s constant chatter during the next four hours were the times that the phone rang.

  By twelve, Charlotte had finished cleaning, and none too soon as far as she was concerned. At some point around midmorning, she’d felt the beginnings of a dull headache, and not even the two aspirins she’d swallowed had helped.

  As she stepped out into the bright noonday sun, she groaned and squinted against the glare. No more Saturday-morning jobs, she silently vowed as she loaded the last of the cleaning supplies into the back of her van. And no more late Friday-night parties after working all day.

  “Charlotte! Wait! Come back!”

  The sound of Bitsy’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Charlotte tensed. “What now?” she grumbled, slamming the back door of the van. She could always simply ignore the old lady, she thought. She could pretend she didn’t hear her, jump into her van, and take off.

  Then shame washed through her as she remembered the look of pride on Bitsy’s face as she’d surveyed the spotlessly clean house. All the old lady wanted was for everything to be nice for her granddaughter’s visit, and true to her word, she had paid extra for Charlotte coming in on such short notice.

  With a weary sigh, Charlotte forced a smile, turned, and trudged back toward the house.

  Bitsy met her at the bottom of the steps. “I forgot to give you these.” She thrust a bulky paper sack toward Charlotte. “On top is one of those chickens I told you about. Beneath are some books I just finished. Don’t worry, though. I wrapped the chicken in foil so it wouldn’t leak on the books.”

  Charlotte accepted the sack and felt even more guilty about her uncharitable attitude. “Thank you,” she said humbly.

  Bitsy was a voracious reader, for she had little to occupy her time but gossip and doctors’ appointments, and she was always passing along books to Charlotte. Their love of reading, specifically mystery books, was one of the few things they had in common.

  “I’ll have the chicken for my lunch, and I know I’ll enjoy the books.”

  “There’s a new Iris Johansen book in there,” Bitsy told her. “And there’s one by Tami Hoag. But there’s also the latest one by that literary agent you like so much who writes.”

  “Evan Marshall?”

  Bitsy nodded. “It’s his second one, and it’s even better than the first one.”

  Charlotte reached out and gently squeezed the old lady’s arm. “Thanks again,” she said. “And have fun with that granddaughter of yours,” she added with feeling.

  As Charlotte drove away, the weight of guilt she felt eased only marginally as Bitsy’s earlier words came back to haunt her. What goes around in this life comes around, and people get paid back for the things they do.

  Truer words were never spoken, she decided, and though she knew that it was a self-serving attitude, she made a silent vow to do her best to be kinder from now on. Not only in deeds but in attitude. After all, one day, all too soon, she would be an old lady, too.

  Little did Charlotte know that her new vow would be put to the test so soon. As she turned the corner onto Milan Street, up ahead she spotted a car parked in front of her house, a familiar car that she recognized immediately.

  Charlotte groaned and wondered if she dared drive past without stopping.

  Chapter Five

  Nadia Wilson was waiting for Charlotte on the front-porch swing. There was no way Charlotte could drive past without being obvious and downright rude. Asleep in Nadia’s lap was three-year-old Davy.

  Charlotte parked her van and sighed deeply as she fought against building resentment. Though her headache had eased somewhat, she had still looked forward to a nice quiet Saturday afternoon . . . a little lunch, a bit of reading,
and a long, relaxing nap.

  A few minutes later, when Charlotte got a closer look at Nadia’s red-rimmed, swollen eyes and blotchy face, all of her resentment instantly disappeared.

  “Nadia, dear, what’s wrong?” she asked softly, not wanting to wake the little boy.

  Nadia looked up at Charlotte, and her eyes filled with tears. But when she tried to answer, Davy stirred, then shifted in her arms, and she made soothing noises to the little boy instead.

  Davy’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Recalling that the lit-tie boy had been ill the day before, Charlotte immediately motioned for Nadia to follow her. “Let’s get Davy out of this heat first,” she whispered.

  The moment Charlotte opened the front door, cool air from inside rushed out to greet her, and Sweety Boy immediately launched into his regular routine of chirping and fluttering his wings as he pranced back and forth along his perch.

  Charlotte shushed the little bird. “Not now, Sweety. Be quiet before you wake Davy.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “Just put Davy in there,” she told Nadia softly. “That way, we can hear him if he wakes up.”

  While Nadia settled Davy in the bedroom, Charlotte went to the kitchen and prepared two glasses of iced tea.

  “Now what’s this all about?” Charlotte asked the younger woman once they had seated themselves in the living room.

  Again Nadia’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.” She took a deep, sobbing breath. “Ricco’s been—he—he’s been arrested.”

  For a moment, Charlotte was speechless. Though it was true that she didn’t have a high opinion of Ricco Martinez, she’d never thought of him as the criminal type. Lazy, yes. But a criminal? “What on earth for?” she finally asked when she found her voice.