Maid for Murder

by Barbara Colley

  “I’d better drive you, then.”

  “No,” Charlotte immediately protested. “It’s not that far, and I—I’ll be just fine. Please give my regrets to Detective Thibodeaux.”

  Judith eyed her with worry. “Call me when you get home so I’ll know you’re okay.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

  Charlotte phoned Judith as soon as she got home. After reassuring her niece that she would be just fine, she made a second phone call to St. Charles General Hospital. She was told that she could speak to the patient’s family in the waiting room, but just the thought of talking to Anna-Marie made her nervous, so she asked to speak to someone in ICU instead.

  From a nurse in ICU she learned that Clarice was still critical, and as she hung up the receiver, she whispered a prayer for the old lady.

  After checking to make sure that Sweety Boy had plenty of food and water, she glanced at the clock. It was only half past six, but since she didn’t plan on going out again and didn’t expect visitors, she decided to go ahead and change into her pajamas.

  In the bedroom, she eyed the bed longingly as she pulled off her uniform. She was tempted to simply crawl into bed and be done with this awful day once and for all, but common sense prevailed, and she knew she should eat something first.

  None of the leftovers in the refrigerator appealed to her, so she opted for her old standby, a can of chicken-noodle soup out of the pantry. She opened the can, and while the soup was heating in the microwave, she poured herself a glass of milk.

  Maybe she’d call Hank after she’d eaten, she thought as she unwrapped a package of crackers to go with the soup. It had been several days since she’d talked to him, and she knew that just the sound of her son’s voice would be reassuring.

  No, she decided. Given her present state of mind, calling Hank probably wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Knowing her son, he would immediately sense that something was wrong, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he found out exactly what it was that was bothering her. Not only would she have to listen to a lecture on keeping her emotions separate from business, but this latest dilemma she’d gotten herself into would only add more fuel to his arguments for her to retire.

  The microwave timer beeped just about the same time that her doorbell chimed. Charlotte decided to ignore the doorbell in the hope that whoever was outside would simply give up and go away.

  But her visitor proved to be persistent and kept ringing the bell. Then Sweety Boy began squawking.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered as she rushed into the bedroom to grab her robe. Throwing on the robe, she hurried to the door. She flipped on the porch light. “Who’s there?” she demanded, irritation lacing her words.

  “It’s Louis Thibodeaux,” a deep male voice answered.

  Charlotte groaned. Louis Thibodeaux was the last person she wanted to see tonight. What on earth was he doing there? Then a frightening thought hit her. Had he found out about Jeanne’s phone call?

  “No way,” she muttered, dismissing the thought. There was no way he could possibly know that her caller was Jeanne unless he’d been eavesdropping at the restroom door, and somehow she couldn’t picture his doing such a thing.

  So what did he want?

  “Charlotte, are you okay in there?”

  “Ah ... yes, I’m fine. Just a minute, please.” Her hand shook as she threw the deadbolt, and with a firm grip on the doorknob, she swung the door just wide enough to stick her head through the opening.

  He was standing close to the door. Too close for comfort. “Judith was worried about you,” he said, eyeing her with a calculating expression that made her want to squirm. “She had some paperwork to finish up at the office,” he explained, “so I told her I would check on you on my way home. Here—” He held out a small styrofoam container. “It’s an order of fried shrimp and a salad. We figured you might get hungry later.”

  We? He’d said we. Not just Judith. Charlotte took the container and tried to ignore the tingle of pleasure in the pit of her stomach. “That was very thoughtful,” she offered. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, but instead of leaving, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. “Could I come inside for a minute? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about I won’t stay long,” he hastened to add.

  Charlotte figured that other than being downright rude, she didn’t have much of a choice, especially after he’d been nice enough to check on her and bring her food. Still, she couldn’t imagine what he’d want to talk about other than the Dubuissons, and she was truly sick of even thinking about the whole affair.

  “I’m really tired,” she told him. “And I’m not feeling well.”

  She expected him to give her an argument. What she didn’t expect was the look of sympathy and genuine concern that crossed his face. “Hey, no problem. It’s nothing urgent, anyway.” He backed away. “We can talk another time. I’ll call you.” With one last worried look, he turned and crossed the porch to the steps.

  Charlotte shut the door and locked it again. She placed the container of food on the small table by the door, then stepped over to the window. As she pulled the curtain back just enough to peek out, her stomach did a funny flip-flop as she watched Louis Thibodeaux get into his car, and for a moment, she regretted that she’d sent him away. Even after the blue Taurus disappeared from sight, she continued to stare out into the night.

  What had he wanted to talk to her about? she wondered. Jeanne? Maybe, but she didn’t think so. If he’d wanted to question her about Jeanne, he would have done so in spite of her excuse of being tired and not feeling well ... wouldn’t he? If not Jeanne, then what?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Over a week had passed since the day of Jackson’s funeral and Jeanne’s escape. Charlotte had asked Hank to inquire about Clarice for her. According to what he’d learned, the old lady had survived her stroke, but her prognosis wasn’t good. There was little hope that she would be much more than a vegetable for what remaining time she had left.

  Because of her medical condition, it was doubtful that any criminal charges would be brought against her for her part in covering up Jeanne’s crimes. Clarice was already in prison, serving a sentence that was far more harsh than any court could ever impose. She’d been sentenced to what little life she had left in a body that no longer did her bidding.

  Louis Thibodeaux had yet to call, and Charlotte still wondered what he’d wanted to talk with her about.

  Judith had stayed in touch, though. According to the information Charlotte got from her niece, in spite of an all-out manhunt, the police had yet to uncover even a clue as to Jeanne’s whereabouts. It was as if Jeanne and Brian had vanished off the face of the earth.

  But life goes on, Charlotte reflected as she finished packing her supply carrier and went in search of her newest client.

  Marian Hebert had been one of the two prospective clients who had called Charlotte on the day of the Zoo To Do festivities. A trim, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, Marian was recently widowed. She and her husband had owned one of the largest real-estate agencies in the city before a freak gas-leak explosion had claimed his life four months earlier.

  Left with two young sons to raise and a business that had taken an abrupt nosedive after her husband’s death, Marian had hired Charlotte to come in three mornings a week to give her more time to salvage what she could of the failing real-estate company.

  With the gaping hole left in her schedule by the Dubuissons, it had been easy to plug Marian into the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday slot.

  Like the majority of the houses in the Garden District, the Heberts’ home was well over a century old; the raised cottage type was also a valuable piece of real estate. The original floor plan was 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 entran
ce.

  Broad galleries had once flanked the front and back of the house. Though the front gallery still remained intact, the back gallery had been replaced by two large rooms, equal in size; one was a modem kitchen-living combination, and the other was used as a home office. The rooms had been added by the Heberts when they bought the old home.

  Charlotte located Marian, who was pecking away at the computer keyboard in the office.

  Marian glanced up the moment Charlotte entered the room. “Is it one o’clock already?”

  When Charlotte smiled and nodded, Marian shook her head. “My goodness, there never seems to be enough hours in the day” She motioned toward the large wooden desk that dominated the back wall. “Your check is over there, on top of that stack of papers in the middle. See you Wednesday morning?”

  “I’ll be here,” Charlotte assured her.

  With a satisfied smile, Marian turned back to concentrate on the computer screen, and Charlotte walked over to the desk. She spotted the check immediately. As she picked up the check, the papers beneath it caught her eye.

  Charlotte went stone-still as she stared at the legal-sized document on top of the stack. A prickly feeling of déjà vu came over her, and a vague memory fought its way to the surface of her mind.

  Like a bolt of lightning, it suddenly hit her, and Charlotte felt her knees go weak. The paper was a mortgage contract, the same type of legal document that she’d seen on Jeanne’s desk the Friday before Jackson was murdered. In her mind’s eye, she could still picture the exact location and description of the property described in the contract. At the time, she’d assumed that the Colorado real estate was simply one of the Dubuissons’ many investments. But now ... What if ...

  She should call Judith right away. If what she suspected was true, then Judith needed to know about it as soon as possible.

  Charlotte slid the check into her apron pocket as she turned and hurried from the room. She grabbed her purse and the supply carrier on her way out and made a beeline for her van. As soon as she was inside the van, she pulled her cell phone out of her purse and punched in Judith’s number. With her forefinger poised over the SEND button, she suddenly froze.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she muttered as she squeezed her eyes closed, then groaned. Hadn’t she promised herself that she would never get personally involved with a client again? Only days ago, she’d been in a tailspin over her relationship with the Dubuissons; yet here she was, about to stick her nose in the big middle of it again.

  Not again, she vowed.

  Before she could change her mind, Charlotte switched off the phone and shoved it back into her purse. Before she went off half-cocked, she would think things through this time.

  Though Charlotte tried her best to ignore her conscience as well as the revelation concerning the Dubuissons’ Colorado property, the drive home was pure torture. Like an itch that begged to be scratched, thoughts of the mortgage contract she’d seen on Jeanne’s desk consumed her.

  She’d never been to Colorado herself, but the husband of one of her former clients had made annual trips there each year to hunt elk. Even now she could still remember how the poor woman had worried about her husband the entire time he was gone. Her client had been born and raised in the city, and though she’d appreciated the beauty of the mountains and the forests, she’d once described the place where her husband hunted as being one of the loneliest, most god-forsaken places on earth.

  What better place as a hideaway for two fugitives ... a place away from civilization ... a place away from prying eyes and curious neighbors? If Jeanne and Brian were holed up somewhere like that, it was no wonder that the police couldn’t find them.

  Charlotte tried telling herself that Jeanne and Brian’s whereabouts was none of her concern, that she should mind her own business. But her conscience kept insisting that she had a moral obligation to report the information to the police, that right was right and wrong was wrong. No one should get away with murder.

  In the fifteen minutes it took to reach her house, Charlotte continued wavering over her decision, so much so that by the time she turned onto her street, she was ready to scream.

  When she spotted the blue Ford parked at the curb in front of her house, she could hardly believe her eyes. With sudden pulse-pounding certainty, it was at that moment that she knew the decision had been taken out of her hands. It was an omen. Fate, it seemed, had stepped in and made the decision for her.

  Why else would Louis Thibodeaux show up on her doorstep at this precise time after an entire week of silence? Why else, unless the information she possessed had been meant to be shared with the police?

  Indecision was the root of all worry, Charlotte decided as she guided the van into her driveway and parked it beneath the shed. Strange, she thought, how once a decision was made, the initial worry seemed to disappear. Even more strange was the fact that she was actually relieved, even glad, to see Louis Thibodeaux.

  By the time she reached the front porch, he was waiting for her near the steps.

  It was odd to see the detective dressed in snug-fitting jeans instead of his usual khaki pants. But the more casual look suited him, she decided, and made him look younger and somewhat less intimidating.

  “I hope you don’t mind me showing up without calling first,” he said.

  “Actually I’m glad you did show up,” she told him, and for once she truly meant it. The surprised expression on his face was priceless, and though just the thought of catching him off guard for a change made her want to smile, what she needed to tell him was no laughing matter. Motioning for him to follow, she turned and climbed the steps. “Come inside. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Sweety Boy began his usual antics of prancing, preening, and squawking the moment Charlotte stepped inside the living room. She set her purse down on the table by the doorway.

  The detective followed her in and glanced over at the birdcage. “I think he’s glad to see you,” he said with a chuckle.

  At the sound of the detective’s voice, the little bird suddenly ceased his squawking and went still so abruptly that he almost fell off his perch. If his actions hadn’t been so bizarre, they would have been comical.

  “What’s your bird’s name?” the detective asked.

  “Sweety Boy,” Charlotte answered, still watching the parakeet to see what he would do next. When his feathers suddenly began quivering, she narrowed her eyes.

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun.” The detective stepped closer to the cage. “Look at that. Poor little fellow. He looks like he’s scared to death. Hey, boy, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The detective eased his forefinger through the cage wires.

  Suddenly, with what sounded like a screech of terror, the little bird flew at the offending finger. His wings flapping, feathers flying, he attacked it with claws and beak.

  “Hey, watch it! Ouch!” The detective jerked his finger back.

  “Sweety Boy!” Charlotte cried.

  While the detective rubbed his injured finger with his thumb, Sweety Boy squawked again, then quickly retreated to the opposite side of his cage.

  “Guess he doesn’t like strangers much, does he?”

  Charlotte was mortified. “He’s usually pretty friendly,” she said apologetically. “Did he break the skin?”

  “Naw, no harm done.” Louis Thibodeaux held out his finger for her inspection.

  There had never been a reason for Charlotte to even notice his hands or fingers before, but she liked what she saw. Though long and slender, his fingers looked strong and capable, and his bluntly trimmed nails were clean. Other than a small red welt near the first knuckle, his forefinger looked none the worse for the bird’s assault.

  “Sorry about that,” she offered. “With the exception of my sister, he’s usually pretty friendly to everyone.”

  “Does he attack her, too?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No.” T
hen she laughed. “She knows better than to get that close. But just last week she swears he called her crazy.”

  The detective chuckled. “Hmm, a discriminating parakeet. Interesting company you keep, Charlotte.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry he was so rude.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He probably just needs a little time to get used to me.”

  The detective’s statement struck her as a bit odd. He didn’t seem the type to throw out an offhanded remark unless he meant it, so exactly what did he mean? she wondered.

  “You said there was something we needed to talk about,” he reminded her.

  “Ah ... yes, yes there is. Won’t you sit down?” She motioned toward the sofa. Once he was seated, she asked, “Would you like something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine for now. Maybe later.”

  Though Charlotte was far too jittery to sit, she felt it would be awkward to remain standing, so she chose a chair opposite the sofa. Perched on the edge of the cushion, her hands clasped tightly together, she didn’t know any other way to say it but straight out. “I—I think I know where you might find Jeanne and Brian,” she told him. “I’m not positive, mind you, but I just remembered something I saw on Jeanne’s desk the Friday before Jackson was murdered.”

  As she explained about the mortgage contract on the property in Gould, Colorado, it was hard to gauge the detective’s reaction from the deadpan look on his face. Even when she’d finished her explanation, his expression didn’t change. She wasn’t sure exactly how she’d expected him to react, but the longer the silence grew between them, the more nervous she became.

  “I was going to call Judith,” she said, hating the defensive tone in her voice, “but since you were already here—” Charlotte suddenly frowned. “Why are you here, by the way? Why were you waiting for me?”

  “That’s not important at the moment,” he said, quickly dismissing her question with a succinct shake of his head. “Right now I’m just trying to figure out why it’s taken you over a week to remember about this property in Colorado.”