Charlotte hadn’t felt comfortable asking Judith on Sunday during lunch, but she’d tried to call her later that evening and never reached her. Since Judith’s beeper went off just before she left Madeline’s, Charlotte figured that her niece was still tied up with a case.
But if June happened to be guilty, Charlotte was sure she would have made it her business to find out all she could about what the police were doing.
June suddenly laughed. “If everyone they’ve questioned is a suspect, then the suspect list includes all the HHS members, as well as Sally next door, poor Gordon, you, and me.” She paused a moment, then shook her head. “I still can’t get over how much you and that woman detective favor each other.”
Charlotte simply shrugged, and June took a bite of the jambalaya. Once she’d chewed and swallowed, she said, “My personal favorite suspect of the whole bunch is Rita Landers. She made Mimi’s life miserable the last year or so with her gossiping. Why, did you know that she accused Mimi of having an affair with Don? He’s Rita’s husband,” she added.
It was the same thing Charlotte had heard being discussed at one of the HHS meetings, but she decided against saying so.
“Humph!” June grunted. “As if anyone would want to have an affair with Don Landers.” She shuddered. “The man is as poor as a church mouse and a total sleaze. Besides which, Mimi would never have an affair. She had way too much invested in Gordon.”
Later, as Charlotte was polishing the handrail of the staircase, she thought about what June had said. Because of the scene she’d witnessed between June and Emma that morning, and in spite of her revelation about June’s brownies, she had to admit that her next favorite suspect would have to be Rita as well. After all, jealousy was a powerful motive, and she’d yet to come up with a real motive for June.
As for Rita, if she was jealous of Mimi because of her own affair with Gordon—and Charlotte still couldn’t quite believe that she was—then what better way to hide the affair than for Rita to accuse Mimi of having one with her husband, Don?
It was a sick scenario and a bit far-fetched, but Charlotte even fancied that she had figured out how Rita could have dispensed the poison without poisoning the rest of the HHS members.
The wine was the clue. Charlotte was sure of it. Rita had used the wine as the vehicle to get close enough to administer the poison. Though Charlotte hadn’t been in the kitchen when the women had uncorked the bottle and she didn’t know who had actually poured the wine, she’d be willing to bet that Rita had done the honors. If Rita had poured the wine, she could have easily slipped the poison into just Mimi’s glass without anyone being the wiser.
Rita certainly seemed to have motive and opportunity, but of course now there was no proof. Rita had made sure of that when she’d sneaked back in the kitchen and washed the wine glasses. And come to think of it, washing the wine glasses was pretty suspicious.
Charlotte paused, admiring the sheen of the old wooden banister. Then suddenly she frowned. So why had Rita come back and taken the leftover wine after the meeting was over? If she’d only laced Mimi’s glass, then why bother taking the bottle?
“Must be something wrong with my theory,” she murmured, as she finished polishing the banister, then moved on to the tables in the main hall. Maybe she should try to call Judith again and see what she could find out. Then again, maybe not. Judith might be a blabbermouth when it came to family matters, but she could be pretty closemouthed about police matters when she wanted to be. Charlotte paused. Maybe it was a good thing after all that she hadn’t been able to get in touch with Judith. For one thing, Judith would want to know why she was so curious, and then she’d have to endure another of her niece’s lectures about getting involved, and one of her niece’s lectures was the last thing she needed right now.
Charlotte sighed and capped the bottle of lemon oil. Thinking about it all was giving her a headache. Either that or the smell of the polish.
Bitsy Duhe, Charlotte’s Tuesday client, lived on the same street as the vampire novelist Anne Rice used to. Bitsy’s house was a very old raised-cottage-style Greek Revival and was surrounded by huge azalea bushes.
Charlotte had begun working for Bitsy after the death of Bitsy’s husband, a former mayor of New Orleans. Before his death, Bitsy and he had led an active social life. Since his death, though, Bitsy had nothing but time on her hands. Her only relatives, a son and two granddaughters, lived some distance away, so the elderly lady spent most of her days either gossiping on the telephone or adding to her enormous collection of kitchen gadgets.
As usual, Bitsy was already outside standing on the front gallery when Charlotte drove up. And as usual, the spry, birdlike elderly lady was dressed in one of her many midcalf flowered dresses.
Bitsy waved as Charlotte parked her van behind an unfamiliar truck in front of the house. Wondering whom the truck belonged to, Charlotte smiled and waved back. As she unloaded her supply carrier from the back of the van, a tall, dark-haired man, who Charlotte guessed was in his mid-to late thirties, came out of the house.
When Charlotte reached the porch, Bitsy introduced the man. “Charlotte, this is Patrick McDonnell. Mr. McDonnell is giving me an estimate on renovating my kitchen.”
Charlotte nodded a brief greeting to Patrick McDonnell. To Bitsy she said, “I guess I didn’t realize you were considering a renovation.”
“I wasn’t until I came across an article in an old magazine about Julia Child’s kitchen.”
Charlotte frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Bitsy sighed impatiently. “You know. Julia Child, the cooking expert.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know who Julia Child is, but—”
“Well, then, pay attention, Charlotte. Back in November 2001, Julia donated her kitchen to the Smithsonian National Museum, and I thought, why not?”
“Why not what?” Charlotte asked, her frown deepening. Sometimes, following Bitsy’s nonstop dialogue was like being lost in a maze.
“For goodness sake, what I meant was why not make over my kitchen like hers? Now, wouldn’t that be a hoot?” Bitsy waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I asked Jenny—remember, she’s my granddaughter who lives in New York—well, I asked her to drive down to DC and go to the Smithsonian. I wanted her to see if she could get pictures of Julia’s kitchen, or a copy of a blueprint of it, so I could re-create it.”
Bitsy paused thoughtfully. “One of the biggest problems, though, will be finding one of those old Garland Commercial Ranges like Julia used, you know, the kind they built back in the early fifties. I believe the article said that the model number was one hundred eighty-two, but—”
To Charlotte’s relief, Patrick McDonnell cleared his throat and interrupted Bitsy’s endless chatter. “Mrs. Duhe, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Bad news? Oh, dear, what now?”
Charlotte didn’t wait around to hear what Patrick had to say. With Bitsy preoccupied, Charlotte seized the opportunity to slip inside the house.
On the days that Charlotte worked for Bitsy, the only reprieve she got from the old lady’s endless chatter was when Bitsy was on the phone or had a doctor’s appointment. Otherwise, she followed Charlotte around jabbering on and on about the latest gossip she’d heard from her cronies.
Charlotte began cleaning in the kitchen, and as she loaded the dishwasher, she prayed that Patrick McDonnell would have lots to talk about, enough to keep Bitsy out of her hair for a little while, anyway.
After loading the dishwasher, Charlotte wiped down the stove, but Bitsy’s new venture stayed on her mind. For months, Bitsy had been complaining that her son was trying to persuade her to sell the house and move into an assisted-living facility. Charlotte grimaced. Something like this newest harebrained idea of hers just might be the final straw for her son. It might make him even more determined to move her into a “home.”
An hour later Bitsy finally came inside. Charlotte was changing the sheets in the master bedroom. When the older lady tracked her down, Charlotte could see fr
om the petulant expression on her face that something was wrong and that Bitsy was very unhappy.
“He says that my kitchen isn’t quite big enough to be an authentic replica,” Bitsy said.
Someone should really say something to the old lady to discourage her, Charlotte thought, as she wrestled the fitted sheet onto the mattress. It was bad enough that Bitsy collected every kind of kitchen gadget imaginable, but this latest obsession was totally off the wall.
Though there was a lot that Charlotte wanted to say to the old lady, and she was sorely tempted, she held her tongue, as she spread the top sheet over the bed. Knowing Bitsy, she probably wouldn’t listen to reason anyway.
Bitsy was staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose I could have someone come in and enlarge it, but that would mean a lot of construction work—tearing down walls and such.”
Charlotte couldn’t stand it a moment longer. She threw a blanket on the bed, and once she smoothed it down, she turned to Bitsy and said, “Are you sure you want to go to all of that expense and trouble? I can’t help but believe it would cost you an arm and a leg.”
Bitsy’s head snapped around, and she glared at Charlotte. “It’s not the cost that concerns me. I have plenty of money. It’s the mess and all of those strangers—the workmen—coming in and out.”
“What about Bradley?” Charlotte persisted. “What’s he going to think about such a project?”
Charlotte’s question brought Bitsy up short, and her eyes clouded with uncertainty.
In a kinder voice, Charlotte said, “You’ve told me time and again that he’s just been looking for an excuse to force you to sell the house, and I’m afraid this might aggravate the situation even more.”
Bitsy nodded slowly. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right,” she conceded. “Maybe I should think about it a while longer.”
Charlotte nodded as she threw the chenille comforter on top of the bed and tugged it into place.
“By the way,” Bitsy said, “Did Sandra Wellington call you?”
Charlotte froze. “How did you know?”
“That must mean that she did.” When Charlotte nodded, Bitsy grinned. “Good,” she said. “She’s really a lovely woman, but a terrible housekeeper, or so I hear.”
“B-but how did you know about—”
Bitsy waved her hand. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Margo Jones told me, and I saw Sandra at the Garden District Book Shop the other day.”
“Now I’m really confused. What does Margo Jones have to do with anything?”
“Margo’s daughter is buying Marian Hebert’s house.” She shrugged. “I put two and two together and—” She shrugged again. “I knew Sandra was looking for someone to clean for her.”
All Charlotte could do was shake her head. “You’re amazing, absolutely amazing.”
Bitsy grinned again. “Why, thank you.”
“No,” Charlotte said. “Thank you. I appreciate your recommendation.”
Bitsy nodded. “Any time, any time at all.” Her grin suddenly faded. “Speaking of your clients, I heard that someone poisoned Mimi Adams. Does that mean you’re going to have a couple of more days free? The only reason I’m asking,” she rushed on, “is because I also told Abigail Thornton that you might have an opening.”
Charlotte hesitated before answering Bitsy. She truly didn’t like discussing her clients or her business with anyone. But after all, the old lady’s recommendation had netted her a new client. “Yes, I did receive a call from her too,” she finally said. “But for the time being, I’ve agreed to continue working for Gordon Adams, so I don’t really have another opening right now.”
“Oh, my.” Bitsy shook her head. “My, my, my. If you’re going to keep working for Gordon without Mimi around, I’d better fill you in on him.”
The temptation to listen to what Bitsy had to say about Gordon was strong, but Charlotte resisted. After all, more than likely, anything that Bitsy told her was pure gossip.
In hopes of discouraging further talk on the subject, Charlotte gathered up the dirty sheets. “I really need to put these in to wash,” she said. Then, with a quick apologetic smile for Bitsy, she headed for the laundry room.
Unfortunately, Bitsy wasn’t easily discouraged, nor was she one to be ignored. Just as Charlotte had expected and dreaded, Bitsy followed her every step, tagging along like a little puppy, all the way to the laundry room.
“He’s a handsome devil, that Gordon,” Bitsy continued, as if there had never been an interruption. “Don’t you think so?” Not waiting for an answer, she said, “But, as my momma used to say, handsome is as handsome does. Or maybe that was pretty is as pretty does?” She frowned. “Never mind about that—anyway, Gordon was considered quite a catch for Mimi. Now don’t get me wrong. Mimi had money too, but she didn’t have the pedigree to go with all of her money, if you know what I mean.”
Charlotte knew exactly what Bitsy meant all too well. Evidently, Mimi’s family had new money, as opposed to having old money, the kind that a family passed along from one generation to the next. And in New Orleans, having new money instead of old money made all the difference when it came to a family’s social standing.
“But that Mimi was smart,” Bitsy chattered away. “She outsmarted them all and snagged Gordon right out from under more than one hopeful debutante’s nose. And, believe me, there were a bunch of them trying to get their hooks into Gordon. Like I said, though, Mimi was smart. When she got him, she made sure she got pregnant right away, a surefire way of keeping him.” Bitsy giggled. “Had everyone counting the months until Justin was born.”
They had reached the laundry room, and Charlotte nodded, mostly to be polite, as she piled the clothes on top of the dryer, then turned on the washing machine. Again, temptation reared its ugly head, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking for the names of the unhappy debutantes. She was just itching to know if Sally Lawson was among the ones whom Gordon had rejected in favor of Mimi.
Reminding herself to tend to her own business, Charlotte measured out the detergent, dumped it into the machine, and waited for the machine to fill with water.
“Rumor has it,” Bitsy went on, “that Gordon—”
The loud ringing of the telephone interrupted her, and though Bitsy was clearly irritated by the interruption, and even Charlotte was a bit irritated herself, there was no way Bitsy would ever ignore a phone call.
The old lady hurried off to answer the phone but still managed to call out over her shoulder, “I’d be careful around Gordon, if I were you. He seems like a nice enough man, but I hear that he can be meaner than a snake and just as lethal.”
Bitsy never did get around to telling Charlotte what she had meant about Gordon being “meaner than a snake and just as lethal.” Bitsy’s phone call was from her son. By the time she finished talking to Bradley, the old lady was much too upset to bother with further gossip about Gordon Adams.
Later, that afternoon, physically and mentally exhausted, Charlotte loaded the supply carrier and vacuum cleaner back into the van. She felt as if she’d been tiptoeing through a minefield ever since Bradley’s phone call. And she was depressed.
Bitsy had been in rare form after her conversation with her son, especially once she’d learned that he was flying in from California for a visit the following weekend. Any other time, Bitsy would have been overjoyed by a visit from him. But not this time. Bitsy was convinced that the only reason Bradley was coming was to force her to move to an assisted-living facility.
After the phone call, Bitsy had been like a woman possessed. She’d followed Charlotte around, double-checking everything that Charlotte did. Nothing seemed to suit her, and nothing Charlotte had said had dissuaded the old lady of her fears. And Charlotte had said a lot, a lot more than she’d intended to say and a lot more than she should have said.
By the end of the day, Bitsy had worked herself up into a royal tizzy and had been so upset that she’d all but begged Charlotte to work on Saturday.
As Charlotte slammed the van door shut, she could still hear Bitsy’s squeaky, pathetic voice. I know you don’t usually work on Saturdays, but I’d just feel better knowing someone I trusted was there—you know—someone who could vouch for me. Bradley would listen to you. I just know he would.
Though there were times it was nearly impossible, Charlotte had always tried to make it her policy to separate business from her personal life. The last thing she wanted was to get embroiled in yet another client’s family situation, especially Bitsy’s. In the end, though, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse the old lady, and, calling herself all kinds of a fool, she’d reluctantly agreed to work the extra day.
“At least you still have Thursday off,” Charlotte muttered to herself as she climbed into the driver’s seat of the van and pulled the door shut. She fastened her seat belt, cranked the van, and checked her side-view mirror. But during the short drive home, she was already adding the chores that she’d planned to do on Saturday to her mental list of chores she needed to get done on Thursday.
One of her so-called chores was to meet Carol for lunch to discuss some of the wedding arrangements. Charlotte smiled as she turned onto Milan Street. That was one task that she was looking forward to with great pleasure.
Trying to dodge the potholes, Charlotte felt a warm glow of contentment flow through her as the van bumped along the narrow street. Bitsy’s problems soon faded, and just thinking about Carol and Hank’s upcoming wedding lifted her spirits.
On the radio, the oldies-but-goldies station was playing “I Can See Clearly Now,” an old Johnny Nash tune, and Charlotte found herself humming along. Indeed, her son’s happiness was exactly the rainbow she had been praying for, and his relationship with Carol had to mean that the pain of his relationship with his ex-wife, Mindy, was finally gone.
When Charlotte arrived at Marian Hebert’s house on Wednesday, the movers were already parked out front, and the hallway was filled with packing boxes waiting to be loaded. After greeting Marian and saying hello to Aaron and B.J., Charlotte began cleaning in the kitchen.
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