“Hold on a moment, Ms. LaRue, and I’ll check.”
A few minutes later, the woman told her, “Whoever ordered the flowers paid cash, ma’am.”
Cash meant the person must have ordered the flowers in person. “Do you happen to remember the person who ordered them?”
“Sorry. Yesterday was my day off. June—the owner—would know, but she’s already gone for the day. You can call back tomorrow. She comes in around eight-thirty most mornings.”
After thanking the woman, Charlotte hung up the phone, then turned to stare at the blank screen of the television. Curious, yet dreading what she might see and hear, Charlotte reached for the remote control, and switched on the TV.
The weather forecaster had just finished up the preliminary weather report when the camera switched to the news desk.
“This just in,” the announcer said. “Through a confidential source, we’ve learned that it was a maid named Charlotte LaRue who discovered the dead body of Nick Franklin earlier this morning in that Garden District murder.”
Chapter 6
The second Charlotte heard her name come out of the announcer’s mouth, her own mouth went dry and she began to shake. As the announcer continued giving details about the murder and Nick Franklin’s connection to Angel Martinique, the rest of what he said faded beneath her fury.
“Don’t leave town and don’t talk to the news media.” The detective’s warning roared in her head. It was bad enough that her name was being broadcast all over creation. Reporters would be knocking down her door. But even worse, she was almost certain that Gavin Brown, along with the rest of the NOPD, was going to think that she was the one who leaked the information to the press.
Stop it! You’re just being paranoid.
No sooner had the thought entered her mind than the phone rang. Sure enough, the caller ID read “Gavin Brown.”
“So, I’m being paranoid, am I?” She jerked up the receiver. “I didn’t do it,” she told him.
“Yeah, we know,” Gavin Brown said.
How could he know?
As if he’d heard her silent question, he explained. “I have to admit that at first I didn’t trust you to only give Ms. Duhè the bare-boned facts, so, to make certain, I called her about an hour ago. But when I spoke to her, she assured me that you hadn’t said a word about being the one who had discovered the body.” He chuckled. “In fact, she was pretty indignant about the whole thing. Anyway, I was mostly calling to warn you in case you didn’t see the broadcast, and I’m hoping that you might have some idea of who might have leaked the info.”
Still angry, Charlotte drummed her fingers against the desktop. “I wish I did know who the blabbermouth was. But considering how angry I am at the moment, it’s probably best that I don’t know, or else you might have another murder on your hands. I don’t want or appreciate my name being broadcast over the airwaves, especially in connection with a murder.”
What about Bruce King, that awful paparazzi fellow?
Charlotte frowned. Why on earth would his name come to mind? Unless the man was Houdini, there was no way he’d be able to sneak inside the house or know any more than the rest of the media. Still, he had tried unsuccessfully to bribe her for information, so it stood to reason that he could have found someone willing to feed him dirt. And if he did, he could have leaked her name on purpose, out of spite—payback for not taking his bribe.
“I don’t blame you for being ticked off,” the detective said. “But one thing—you might want to consider staying somewhere else for a few days. Reporters will be camping out on your doorstep now.”
“Great! Just wonderful,” she added sarcastically. “Thanks for the warning, but barring a hurricane, I have no intention of letting anyone run me out of my home.”
Unbidden, again the name Bruce King came to mind. Should she or shouldn’t she mention the tabloid reporter? It only took a moment for her to decide. “Listen, now that I’m thinking about it, you might want to check out a reporter who was hanging around on Monday. I was leaving when he approached me and tried to bribe me to give him information about Angel. Of course I refused, but someone else might have decided to take him up on his offer. He could have someone on the inside feeding him information.”
“So, are you going to give me his name or keep me guessing?”
“Oh—yes, of course. His name is Bruce King.”
“Okay, thanks.”
With Bruce King still on her mind, Charlotte slowly hung up the receiver. By all accounts, when it came to Angel, the sleazy man was relentless. Could he also be desperate, desperate enough for something sensational about Angel that he would create his own so-called news?
What? By committing murder? Don’t even go there.
Immediately dismissing the idea as yet another case of having an overactive imagination, Charlotte headed for the kitchen to see what she could find for supper.
The first thing Charlotte did on Thursday morning was peek out her front window in search of anyone who didn’t belong there. “So far, so good,” she told Sweety Boy, and she stepped outside onto the porch to retrieve the morning newspaper from the front steps. Back inside, she headed for the kitchen, where she settled down at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and the newspaper.
Sure enough, an article about Nick Franklin’s murder made the front page. She briefly skimmed it. When she’d finished, she breathed a sigh of relief that her name hadn’t been mentioned.
After breakfast she headed to the bedroom to get dressed for the day. As she passed through the living room, the sight of the bouquet of flowers gave her pause and reminded her about phoning the flower shop.
“It should be open by now,” she murmured. Her call was answered on the third ring. “Hi, is this June, the owner?”
“Yes, this is June.”
“June, I’m looking for some information on a bouquet of flowers that was delivered to me Tuesday afternoon.”
“Name, please,” June asked.
“Charlotte LaRue and I live on Milan Street.”
“Just a sec while I check my records.” Several moments passed; then June said, “Ah, yes, here it is. Was there a problem with the flowers, Ms. LaRue?”
“No, no problem, except that the card wasn’t signed. I’m hoping that you can tell me who ordered them. They’re so beautiful and I want to send a thank-you note.”
“Hmm, let me see…No, sorry, no name was given. I see from my records that the flowers were a cash purchase.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes, well, do you happen to remember the person who bought the flowers?
There were several moments of silence before June finally said, “Sorry, I don’t. Tuesday was an exceptionally busy day for me and I was in the shop by myself.”
“Phooey,” Charlotte whispered, even more puzzled.
“Like I said, ma’am, I am sorry that I can’t help you.”
“That’s okay, but if you do remember something—anything—or if he comes back in and you recognize him, could you please give me a call?” Suddenly, another thought occurred. “Or, if anyone else comes in with a cash order for me, could you make sure you get their name?”
“Sure. Give me your phone number.”
“Thank you so much.” Once Charlotte gave June her phone number, she thanked her again and hung up the phone.
Shaking her head and even more puzzled than before, Charlotte continued on to the bedroom to dress. Maybe it was Louis who sent the flowers. He had been acting a little strange of late, and it would be like him to just assume that she would know he sent the bouquet. But what on earth would he be thanking her for?
She could always call him and find out. Or she could simply wait until he got home and then ask him. She’d wait, she decided.
On Friday morning, Charlotte was headed out the door when the phone rang. “Murphy’s Law,” she murmured as she marched over to the desk. “What can go wrong will go wrong,” she added, glaring at the CALLER UNKNOWN on the phone ID display screen.
Usually CALLER UNKNOWN only popped up when someone was calling from a cell phone, didn’t it? No, that wasn’t exactly right, but at the moment she couldn’t remember.
Probably Mega Films. “I should have known this would happen,” she told Sweety Boy. “Should have known that the moment I promised Carol I would babysit the twins for a couple of hours, that would be the time they would call for me to come back to work.”
Still and all, maybe it was simply a wrong number, or someone looking for a maid, or…“Oh, for pity’s sake, just answer it,” she whispered. With a sigh, she picked up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
“You’ll never guess what I just found out.”
Great! Bitsy!
“The police have arrested Angel Martinique for murdering that boyfriend of hers,” Bitsy continued without waiting for Charlotte to comment. “I believe the boyfriend’s name is Nick Franks or Franklin, something like that. But then you probably already know that, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer she continued. “They say that Angel stabbed him with a letter opener, of all things. Do you think she did it on purpose or was it an accident?”
When Charlotte didn’t answer, Bitsy said, “Oh, never mind. Anyway, not only did they find her fingerprints all over the letter opener, but there’s been some talk that Angel and this Nick person have a history that goes way back to when they were teenagers.”
For several moments, Charlotte was too stunned to speak. Even though she’d witnessed two separate altercations between Nick Franklin and Angel, and one had even been a bit violent, she just couldn’t picture Angel stabbing Nick.
“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Bitsy demanded.
Charlotte took a shaky breath. “First of all, is this just gossip or facts? And second, if what you’ve just told me is true, where did you get your information? There was nothing on the morning news about any of this.”
“No, it’s not ‘just gossip.’ I don’t gossip.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of England.
“I’ll have you know,” Bitsy retorted, “I have my sources. I may be old, but in case you’ve forgotten, I still have connections to City Hall.”
Oh, boy, now she’d gone and insulted the old lady…again. She knew she should be ashamed for being so impatient and judgmental, but Bitsy had a way of getting on her last nerve.
“And by the way,” Bitsy continued, obviously still miffed, “while I’m thinking about it, you should have told me that you were the one who discovered the body.”
Dear Lord, give me strength. “Bitsy, I’ve already explained to you why I couldn’t do that.” Charlotte forced herself to soften her tone. “I just want to know who told you about the arrest.”
“Well, if you must know, my neighbor called me. Don’t you remember? She’s the one whose son works over at the jail. She’s also keeping me informed about the goings-on around my house while I’m gone.”
Charlotte was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea of Bitsy having a snitch when the old lady said, “So, what do you think? Did Angel do it? I figure since you’ve been around her for a couple of days, surely you have some kind of opinion about it.”
Charlotte had no intention of discussing her own speculations about Angel’s guilt or innocence with Bitsy or prolonging the conversation, for that matter. Purposely ignoring the question, she said, “Bitsy, I really appreciate the information and I hate to cut this short, but I was on my way out the door when you called. I promised Carol that I would babysit Samantha and Samuel this morning.”
For several moments, the only sound Charlotte heard was heavy breathing, then, “Humph! When you finish babysitting, call me.” The next sound Charlotte heard was a loud click.
Charlotte pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. “I can’t believe it. She hung up on me.” She shook her head. “Guess there’s a first for everything,” she told Sweety Boy as she picked up her purse and headed for the door. Just as she reached for the doorknob, she remembered the detective’s warning about reporters camping out on her doorstep. “Might be a good idea to check first,” she told the little bird as she stepped over to the window.
Sure enough, there was a strange van parked across the street from her house. “Great!” she muttered. “Now what?” Finally, after staring at the vehicle a few moments more, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Might as well get it over with.
“Now, you be a good little birdie, and I’ll be back later,” she said to Sweety Boy, then firmly closed the door behind her and locked it.
She was almost to her van when a man emerged from the driver’s side of the parked vehicle. “Hey, lady,” he called out, walking quickly toward her. “Wait up a minute.”
Charlotte hopped inside her van, slammed the door shut, and hit the automatic door-lock. Then, after cranking up the van, she turned to see where the man had gone. The sight of his face on the other side of the window gave her a start, and fear mixed with anger spurted through her.
“Sorry about that,” he said loudly as he backed away. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but are you Ms. Charlotte LaRue?”
“Who wants to know?” she asked pointedly.
“I’m a freelance reporter, ma’am, and I need to talk to Ms. LaRue.”
Torn between telling the man to get off her property and calling the police, Charlotte simply glared at the man.
Remember, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Or, in this case, maybe she could get rid of the pesky reporter easier by being nice rather than being nasty. It was worth a try and she knew just exactly how she was going to do it.
Pasting on the sweetest little-old-lady smile that she could conjure, she said, “Sorry, young man. I know all of my neighbors and none of their names are LaRue.” It wasn’t a lie…not exactly. She did know all of her neighbors and none of them but her had the last name LaRue. “You must have the wrong street.”
The reporter didn’t argue, but he did give her a funny look as he backed away. Then, with a shrug, he finally turned and headed for his van. “That should work for a little while,” she said aloud to no one as she shifted into Reverse and backed out of her driveway.
Putting thoughts of the reporter aside for the moment, she mulled over Bitsy’s phone call while she drove to her daughter-in-law’s house. If it were true, if the police had arrested Angel for murder, how would that affect the movie? Would they shut down production permanently? She figured that without one of the main stars, they wouldn’t have a choice.
By the time that Charlotte got home that afternoon, she was well ready for a little peace and quiet…and she was bone-tired. What she needed was a cup of coffee.
She headed for the kitchen, fixed the coffeepot, and turned it on. While the coffeepot gurgled and sputtered, reminding her that it was past time to give the machine a thorough cleaning, she stared out the window over the sink. She dearly loved the twins and loved spending time with them, but being around them when their mother was there to referee as opposed to having the full responsibility of being the referee was an entirely different thing.
Smiling with the lingering memories of her morning, she poured herself a cup of coffee and headed for her desk in the living room. As she settled at the desk, though, her smile quickly faded. She’d rather eat worms than have to fool with the monthly bookkeeping chores for Maid-for-a-Day. Too bad, though. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.
It was times like these that she wished she could simply hire her sister to keep the books for her. Several years back Madeline had started her own small accounting firm, and now she had more clients than she could handle. Even so, Charlotte had been reluctant to let her sister handle the books for Maid-for-a-Day, the main reason being that she didn’t really want Madeline, or anyone else for that matter, knowing all about her business. Besides, Madeline charged her clients a lot more than Charlotte was willing to pay, which left little choice
but for her to do it herself.
Charlotte reached down and removed her business ledger from the bottom drawer. From another drawer, she removed a large manila envelope full of receipts. Just as she flipped the ledger open, there was a loud knock on the front door.
Uneasiness spiced with irritation swept through her. Since she wasn’t expecting company, thoughts of the reporter who had been parked in front of her house earlier that morning immediately came to mind.
Charlotte stood and tiptoed over to the front window. If the man had returned, she’d simply pretend that no one was at home.
And what about your van parked in the driveway?
Oh, yeah, the van. “Too bad,” she whispered. In that case she would simply ignore the man.
The first thing she spotted was the long white limousine parked in her driveway. “What on earth?” she murmured as her gaze shifted from the limo to the man standing on her porch.
“Well, for Pete’s sake,” she exclaimed. Reaching for the deadbolt, she quickly unlocked the door and threw it wide open. “Hey, there, hon.” She gave a sweeping motion with her hand. “Come on in.”
Though Benny Jackson nodded and gave her a wan smile, the smile didn’t quite reach his bloodshot eyes. Dressed simply in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt instead of his chauffeur uniform, he looked much younger and more like the young man who used to hang around her house so many years ago.
“Sorry to barge in on you without calling first,” he said as he stepped inside.
“No problem. Can I offer you something to drink? I just made a pot of fresh coffee. Iced tea?”
“Iced tea would be great, if it’s not too much trouble? I’m up to my eyeballs in coffee.”
“No trouble at all,” she replied. “It won’t take but a minute.”
Benny followed her back to the kitchen and seated himself at the kitchen table. Once she’d served him the tea, she sat down opposite him with her cup of coffee. “So, what brings you over to my neck of the woods this afternoon?”
Dusted to Death Page 8
