Charlotte shook her head. “Go away.” She tried sidestepping to get around him, but he grabbed her supply carrier.
“Come on, lady. Just a couple of questions.”
Sudden anger shot through her. “Let go!” she demanded.
“Don’t you want your name in the paper?”
Charlotte glared at the man. Gripping the supply carrier with both hands, she shouted, “No! Now let go!” She yanked hard, and he lost his hold. She feigned to the right. Before he could regain his balance, she jerked back to the left and bolted through the gate opening.
Charlotte knew that the gate would automatically lock once it was pulled into place, and she quickly slammed it shut.
With the locked gate between her and the man, she still didn’t breathe easy until she reached the steps leading to the deck.
“Aw, come on, lady,” he called out.
His hands clutched the cast-iron bars on the other side, giving him the appearance of being behind the bars of a jail. “Give me a break here. All I wanted was to ask a couple of questions.”
“Go away,” she yelled, “or I’m calling the police.” With one last, wary look at the reporter, she hurried across the deck. Once inside the house, she shoved the door shut and locked it, but her heart was still racing.
“Charlotte?”
The abrupt sound of Jeanne’s voice gave her a start. Charlotte whirled around to see the younger woman standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“What’s going on? Did I hear voices outside?”
Still so angry that she could hardly talk, Charlotte nodded as she shoved away from the door. “Just an obnoxious reporter,” she told her, “looking for a story.”
A haunted expression came over Jeanne’s face. “Aren’t they all?” Her voice quivered, and if possible, she suddenly looked even more exhausted than she had earlier.
“Now, don’t you worry one minute about that man out there,” Charlotte told her, her protective instincts flaring. “I’ll fix his wagon good. I’ll call my niece—”
I’d just as soon you didn’t tell Mrs. Dubuisson that we’re related....
“The police,” Charlotte quickly interjected to cover the slip. “If he doesn’t go away soon, I’ll call the police—or just as good, I’ll call a friend of mine who’s a managing editor with the Picayune.” Making a mental note to phone Mary Johnson to complain about the reporter, she motioned toward the general direction of the foyer. “You go on back upstairs now. Go to your room and take a nap. Turn the ringer off the phone,” she added, “and I’ll answer it if anyone calls and take messages for you down here.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Jeanne said. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. It’s like I’m too tired now, if that makes any sense.”
Charlotte nodded. “That happens sometimes. What about something to help you sleep? Doesn’t Miss Clarice have a prescription for something like that?”
Jean wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Yes, I’m sure she does, but—”
“Normally, I wouldn’t suggest that anyone take someone else’s prescription drugs,” Charlotte hastened to add, “but I’m sure that whatever Miss Clarice is taking would be mild enough and safe enough for you to take, too.”
The younger woman nodded. “I’ve taken sleeping pills before, so that’s not really a concern.”
“Tell you what, then.” Charlotte moved closer to Jeanne. “Let’s get you tucked into bed and I’ll go ask Miss Clarice for one of those pills for you.” She placed her hand at the small of Jeanne’s back and urged her back through the dining room and into the foyer. That Jeanne willingly went along with her and didn’t argue or resist was telling. The woman was past exhaustion, inside and out.
It was only when they reached the door to the master suite and Jeanne hesitated that Charlotte had misgivings. Maybe she should have suggested that Jeanne sleep in the guest room or even on the sofa in the back parlor.
The guest room.
Of course. All the while, she’d been speculating as to where Jeanne had slept over the weekend, but since she hadn’t cleaned the guest room yet, she’d never once even considered the logical answer, that Jeanne had more than likely been staying in there.
“Ah, Jeanne, maybe you’d prefer to nap in the guest room instead?”
Jeanne slowly turned to face Charlotte, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How did you know?” she whispered.
Not exactly sure what the younger woman was asking, Charlotte simply shrugged. “I didn’t,” she hedged. “I just figured you might find it more—er, ah, comfortable, given the circumstances.”
Jeanne nodded. “You’re a very kind person, Charlotte LaRue. And yes, I think I would rest better in there.”
From that minute on, Charlotte was like an old mother hen hovering over a baby chick as she urged Jeanne toward the room across the hall. “You go in and get undressed, and I’ll bring you in a gown.”
When Charlotte returned with one of the long-sleeved silky gowns and matching robe that Jeanne preferred, she glanced around the spacious room while the younger woman changed. The bed was rumpled, as if it had been hastily made up, a couple of slacks and blouses were draped across one of the overstuffed lounge chairs, and cosmetics littered the dresser top, all evidence that Jeanne had indeed taken up residence in the room.
Once again, as it had earlier, a curious thought niggled at the back of her brain. Why all weekend, though? Why would Jeanne have chosen to sleep in the guest room instead of with her husband, especially since Jackson wasn’t murdered until either late Sunday night or early Monday morning?
After she made sure that Jeanne was tucked into bed, she told her, “I’ll get one of those sleeping pills for you and be right back.”
When Charlotte approached the door to Clarice’s rooms, it was still partially open, and there were no sounds coming from within. Thinking that the old lady could be in the bathroom, Charlotte peeked around the edge of the door.
Jeanne had opened the blinds, and the afternoon light poured into the room. But Clarice wasn’t in the bathroom. The old lady was still in her bed, her head thrown back against a pillow, her eyes closed, and her mouth wide open.
All that arguing must have worn her out, Charlotte thought as she eased inside the doorway, her gaze still focused on Clarice.
But something wasn’t quite right. Charlotte narrowed her eyes and stared harder at the old woman, specifically at her chest region. Shouldn’t her chest be moving up and down, even a little bit? she wondered, staring harder.
An eternity of time seemed to pass, and Charlotte held her own breath even as her whole being slowly filled with dread.
Why wasn’t Clarice breathing?
Chapter Ten
Charlotte was close to the panic stage. Then, suddenly, Clarice’s whole body seemed to shudder. She drew in a noisy, gasping breath, and within moments, she resumed the deep, even rhythm of sleep, accompanied by loud, raunchy snores.
It was only then that Charlotte drew in a deep breath of her own and released it with a sigh of heartfelt relief. Sleep apnea, she belatedly realized as she tiptoed across the room. Another client she’d once worked for had suffered from the sometimes deadly condition, and Charlotte recalled that temporary suspension of respiration was one of the main symptoms.
Quite simply, the brain sometimes malfunctions while the person sleeps and doesn’t send the right signal to the body to breathe. Since Clarice, more than likely, had a milder form of the condition, Charlotte made a mental note to bring the matter to Jeanne’s attention just in case she hadn’t already noticed.
Inside the bathroom, Charlotte flipped on the light switch. To make sure she wouldn’t disturb Clarice, she eased the door closed behind her.
“What a mess,” she murmured as she glanced around. Dirty towels and washcloths, along with dirty clothes, were piled on the tile floor in the corner. But it was the marble countertop around the sink that was the worst. There were more soiled washcloths, wadded up and thrown
carelessly in the sink, a couple of dirty glasses, and a tube of toothpaste without the cap, the toothpaste oozing out of the tube onto the countertop.
In addition to everything else, as always, a fine film of talcum powder dusted the countertop and the floor. From her years of working for the Dubuissons, Charlotte had come to know certain idiosyncrasies about each of the family members. One of the things that she’d learned about Clarice was that the old lady literally bathed in the lilac-scented talcum powder after her shower each day.
Inside the closed-up room, the flowery scent was overwhelming. Charlotte felt a sneeze coming on, sniffed to stave it off, then twitched her nose as she stared at the countertop. Then she frowned. Something was different about the powder. Mixed with the talcum was a more coarse type of powder that Charlotte didn’t readily recognize.
So what could it be? she wondered as she reached out and traced an invisible pattern through the residue. Had Clarice changed brands? It certainly smelled like the old lady’s usual brand.
She rubbed her forefinger and thumb together. No, she thought, noting the gritty texture of the substance. It definitely wasn’t all just talcum.
Charlotte never had been able to walk away from a mess. With one last puzzled look at the powder and a shrug, she quickly set about gathering the towels, washcloths, and clothes that were on the floor and on the countertop. After stuffing them into the hamper, she replaced the cap on the toothpaste, then thoroughly rinsed out the dirty glasses.
From underneath the cabinet, she selected a clean washcloth. After wetting it beneath the faucet, she wrung it out, then wiped down the countertop. Wadding it up into a ball, she dropped the soiled washcloth into the hamper, then turned her attention to the array of prescription-medicine bottles lined up at the back of the counter.
Charlotte picked up three different vials and read each of the labels before she finally found the one she was looking for. Though it took a moment to wrest off the childproof cap, she finally got it open and shook out one of the phenobarbital tablets. Peering down into the vial, she noted that there were only two tablets left.
She filled one of the glasses with water, and with one last glance around and a silent promise to do a more thorough job of cleaning once Clarice woke up, she left the bathroom. As she tiptoed back across the bedroom, she noted that Clarice’s breathing still appeared to be normal.
In the guest room, Jeanne was in the bed, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, when Charlotte reentered.
“I took one of your mother’s phenobarbital tablets,” she said as she walked over to the bed and held out the pill.
Jeanne shifted her gaze to Charlotte, accepted the tablet, then raised herself up off the bed, using her elbow for a prop.
“There are only a couple of tablets left, though,” Charlotte told her, “so you might want to call in a refill”
Jeanne’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she popped the tablet into her mouth and washed it down with the water Charlotte gave her. “I can’t believe I forgot to get that refilled,” she said a moment later as she lay back against the pillow. “I guess with everything that’s happened, it just completely slipped my mind.”
“That* certainly understandable,” Charlotte agreed. “Would you like for me to call it in for you? While I’m at it, I could check out Miss Clarice’s other prescriptions, too, in case any of the rest also need refilling.”
Jeanne closed her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side. “That’s really sweet of you to offer, Charlotte,” she murmured. “But no, I’ll take care of it ... later ...” She turned over on her side and snuggled farther down into the bed. “After I’ve rested for a while,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
Charlotte checked to make sure that the ringer of the telephone on the bedside table was turned off, then quietly left the room. With both Jeanne and Clarice asleep, there wasn’t much more she could do upstairs, not without making noise that might disturb them. She knew that the laundry was piling up, but she decided that Friday would be soon enough to catch up on the washing.
Out of the master suite, she retrieved her supply carrier, but as she eyed the small tables in the upstairs hallway, she remembered that she had wanted to make a phone call to Mary Johnson. Figuring that now was as good a time as any, she left her supplies by one of the tables and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.
Mary Johnson was the oldest daughter of Claude and Lydia Johnson, a couple who had been Charlotte’s clients for years, up until they had both retired. After retirement, Lydia had decided that since they needed the additional exercise, anyway, it would do them both a lot of good to clean the house themselves instead of hiring someone.
After a series of transfers, Charlotte finally got Mary on the line. “Mary, this is Charlotte LaRue.”
“Oh, Charlotte, it’s so good to hear from you. How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine,” Charlotte answered. “And you? And your mom and dad?”
Mary assured her that everyone was doing just great, and Charlotte propped her hip against the cabinet while she listened to her friend bring her up-to-date about her parents’ latest hobby.
“I tell you, Charlotte, I never thought I’d see the day when my mother and father would be hitting every garage sale and flea market around. You should see all the junk they’ve collected.”
“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Charlotte told her. And as she listened to Mary describe some of the items her parents had discovered at a particular junk sale, she felt a small pang of envy. One of these days Hank would finally win, she thought. She would have to retire. But unlike the Johnsons, there would be no one for her to share new hobbies with, no one to share anything with....
Charlotte gave herself a mental shake. Retirement day was still a long way off as far as she was concerned, and feeling sorry for herself was a totally useless waste of energy and time.
“Listen, hon,” she interrupted when Mary paused, “I know you must be busy, and I won’t keep you but a moment more. But I was wondering if you might be able to help me out with a little problem I’m having.”
Once Charlotte had explained about the rude reporter, Mary was outraged. “I’m so sorry that happened, Charlotte, and I’m pretty sure I know who the man is. We’ve had other complaints about him, if he’s the one I’m thinking of. And for the record, he’s not a regular employee. He’s just a freelance writer we’ve occasionally bought stories from. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about it, but I’ll try. If he makes a pest of himself again, please feel free to call the police on him, with my blessing.”
Charlotte thanked her friend, and quickly reminding Mary to say hello to her folks for her, she ended the conversation. But as she trudged back up the stairs, she couldn’t help thinking about the conversation and how different her life might have been if not for Vietnam.
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda,” she grumbled, removing her duster from the supply carrier. And while she dusted and polished the small tables in the upstairs hallway, she began mentally listing all of her blessings and the positive forces in her life in a concerted effort to stave off the shadows of the past.
By the time she moved on to the staircase, she was feeling somewhat better. The scuff marks were there again, she noted, staring at the stairs. Funny, she thought. They looked just the same as the last time she’d dusted and polished the staircase.
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Maybe she’d been mistaken; maybe the marks hadn’t been made by Clarice’s walker, after all. She supposed that they could have been made by someone’s shoes. Perhaps she should check out the ones that Jeanne wore around the house. In the long run, though, what difference did it make? she finally decided. Either way, the marks still had to be scrubbed up.
It seemed to take an eternity to finish the stairs. By the time she was finally done, she’d lost count of how often she’d been interrupted by the phone ringing. Her legs ached from running up and down the stairs. Her apron pocket was
filled with messages she’d taken, mostly from well-meaning acquaintances calling to express their condolences or others wanting to know if funeral arrangements for Jackson had been made yet.
It was getting close to the end of her workday when she finally finished cleaning the downstairs rooms. Jeanne and Clarice were still sleeping.
Though cleaning could be physically demanding and tiring, for the most part it was mindless work, the kind that allowed a person to daydream or occasionally indulge in fantasies.
Charlotte found that cleaning was an excellent time to review all the tiny details as well as the problems that running her own business required. There were always things like quarterly taxes, health insurance, and employee time schedules to contend with. Many times after a day’s work, she found that she was not only physically exhausted but mentally tired as well.
The only chore left to do was to sweep off the gallery; in Charlotte’s opinion, sweeping was the most mindless work of all. At times, she even found the rhythm of the swish-swish of the broom restful, and she welcomed the mental break as she moved onto the porch to begin the task.
Outside there was a cloud cover that painted the sky gray. Though it was still hot and muggy, at least it wasn’t as unbearable as the last time she’d swept the porch.
She had finished almost half the front lower gallery when it suddenly struck her that the pattern of the debris strewn across the porch was almost identical to the one that she’d swept away on Friday.
Charlotte stopped sweeping and stood motionless. Frowning, she stared at the leaves and dried grass. On Friday, she’d decided the debris was the result of the gardener’s tracking the stuff across the porch in search of a cool, shady place to rest.
Her frown deepened. The gardener came on Tuesdays, and the police didn’t finish their investigation until late Tuesday, too late for the gardener to come.
So who had tracked up the porch this time?
Then it dawned on her, and she chuckled. The police. Yes, of course, she thought as she resumed sweeping. The police were probably all over the place, looking for clues, so of course they were the ones who had tracked it up this time.
Maid for Murder (Charlotte LaRue Mystery Series, Book 1) Page 10
