Dusted to Death

by Barbara Colley

  Charlotte’s stomach growled loudly as she unlocked the front door to her side of the double and went inside. Eyeing the blinking light on her answering machine, she deliberately ignored it for the moment and headed straight for the kitchen. Already it was past her regular lunchtime, and she really needed to eat. After she’d decided on a ham sandwich and leftover potato salad, she fixed a plate and took it back to the living room so she could watch the noon news and weather.

  Before turning on the television, she took a moment to bow her head and say a prayer of thanksgiving. After asking for her meal to be blessed, she prayed about the weather, specifically that there would be no tropical activity out in the Gulf of Mexico to worry about. What with first, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, then, a mere three years later, Hurricanes Gustav and Ike, she prayed that the tropics would be quiet and mild this hurricane season, and that no one would have to contend with damaging weather.

  With a firm “Amen,” she picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. By the time the news and weather were over and she’d satisfied herself that there was nothing new about Nick’s murder or Angel’s arrest, Charlotte had finished her meal.

  Again she eyed the blinking answering machine light. “Guess now is as good a time as ever,” she murmured. After she set her empty plate on the coffee table, she walked over to the desk to listen to her messages.

  The first message was from Louis. “Hi, Charlotte. Guess your new job played out, what with the main star being arrested for murder, huh?” There was a long pause. “Not quite sure how to say this except just to come right out and say it. Stay out of it. Let the police handle it. Anyway, enough said. Looks like I’ll be in Houston longer than I’d planned. If you don’t mind, would you collect my mail for me? I would appreciate it. Oh, and in case you need to get in touch with me, just call my cell phone. See you in a few days. Bye.”

  Stay out of it? Charlotte fumed. Just who did he think he was? What was it with him? A few kisses and he thought he could dictate what she could do and what she couldn’t do?

  Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?

  Ignoring the aggravating voice of reason, she muttered, “‘Enough said’ indeed,” and immediately dismissed his so-called advice. Until he started paying her bills, he could mind his own business and stay out of hers.

  Louis’s message ended with a beep, and the second message began. “Charlotte, this is Bitsy. Where the devil are you? I tried your cell phone and left a message, and this is the third time I’ve called you at home. What’s going on at my house? No one will tell me anything.”

  A beep sounded, and the mechanical voice of her answering machine informed her, “You have no more messages.” Frowning, Charlotte dug inside her purse for her cell phone. “Great,” she whispered. “I didn’t even turn the ding-dang thing on this morning.” So how many more messages had she missed?

  Charlotte turned on the cell phone. After determining that Bitsy’s call was the only one she’d received, she turned the phone off again and dropped it back inside her purse.

  Still aggravated over Louis’s call, she marched into the kitchen and placed her dirty dishes into the dishwasher, all the while telling herself to take a few deep breaths and calm down. By the time she returned to the living room, she felt somewhat better.

  Stopping by her desk, she stared at the phone and the financial ledger that was still exactly where she’d put it. Charlotte sighed. There was still Bitsy to contend with and she still needed to catch up on paperwork for Maid-for-a-Day.

  Charlotte sighed again. Dear Lord, she dreaded calling Bitsy almost as much as she dreaded the boring task of posting receipts to the ledger. She’d much rather check in with Benny and see if he knew where she could find Bruce King.

  “First things first,” she murmured. The ledger could wait a while longer, but if she didn’t call Bitsy, she’d never hear the end of it. So first she’d return Bitsy’s call, and then she’d phone Benny. Even if Benny didn’t have any information on King, she’d bet her bottom dollar that he’d know someone who did.

  Half an hour later, Charlotte hung up the telephone receiver and once again had to take several deep breaths to calm down. Though she had tried repeatedly to reassure Bitsy that her house and her possessions were under lock and key with policemen patrolling the grounds, the elderly lady kept insisting that Charlotte needed to check it out for her. Of all things, Bitsy was still worried about the blood-soaked antique rug.

  When Charlotte explained that the crime scene team had taken the rug with them, Bitsy had a conniption fit. “What about the wood floor beneath the rug?” she’d whined. Then she’d started a tirade about how she’d have to have the floor sanded and refinished. Never mind that a man had been murdered, and never mind that an innocent woman was being held for that murder. Since Bitsy didn’t know them personally, none of that really mattered to her. All she could think about was her ruined rug and floor.

  “You could get inside the house if you wanted to,” Bitsy had declared. “It may not be too late to scrub up the bloodstains. Get that niece of yours to let you inside.”

  The only way she’d been able to finally end the conversation was to promise Bitsy that she would at least ask Judith about getting inside the house.

  “I swear.” Charlotte shook her head. At times, talking to Bitsy was like talking to a brick wall. The elderly lady had been her client for several years now, and it seemed that the older Bitsy got, the more stubborn she became.

  Be careful. That’s kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. Judge not, lest ye be judged. You’re no spring chicken, you know, and you’re getting older as well.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Charlotte muttered, recalling what her sister had said about “old age” earlier that morning. “Guess everything’s relative,” she whispered. She thought of Bitsy as being old, and Maddie thought of Charlotte as being old.

  “Enough already. Right, Sweety?” she called out. But Sweety Boy ignored her. Probably pouting, she decided, since it had been days since she’d let him out of his cage to stretch his wings. After the time he’d flown into the shower and after his adventure outside several months earlier, now she always made sure that she could watch him when he was out of the cage. Maybe she’d let him out once she’d talked to Benny.

  After a brief futile search of the top of her desk for Benny’s cell phone number, she remembered that she’d scribbled the number at the bottom of the list of notes she’d taken when they had discussed the suspects.

  Once she’d retrieved the notepad, she dialed the number. After the fourth ring, Benny answered. “Hello, Benny Jackson here.”

  “Benny, this is Charlotte.”

  “Hey, Miss Charlotte. Any luck with Angel?”

  “No, but I could tell that there’s definitely something that she’s hiding. I think you’re right about that blackmail business. But listen, one of the reasons I’m calling is in hopes that you might know how we could locate Bruce King.”

  Charlotte went on to explain about the article written by King that she’d found. “Besides being the best suspect we have at the moment,” she continued, “I think we should explore all of the possibilities. He seems to know a lot about a lot of things. Even if my suspicions about him don’t pan out, it just might be possible that he stumbled onto something about Angel and Nick. I thought he might be hanging around the house where the movie is being shot, but when I drove by, I didn’t see him.”

  “Finding King might be helpful,” Benny offered, “but it’s not likely that he’s going to confess or give out any information. Besides, if he knew anything about the blackmailing business, don’t you think he would have included it in his article?”

  Charlotte drummed her fingers against the top of the desk. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Then again, he might be afraid that if he wrote something like that, he’d attract the attention of the police. Hmm, guess we’ll have to try something else.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. There just m
ay be another way to find out if and why Nick might have been blackmailing Angel. Remember me telling you that only a very few people know Angel’s real name and where she comes from?”

  The drumming of Charlotte’s fingers slowed, then stopped completely. Of course! If anyone knew the truth about Angel’s name and background, it would be Benny. “And you’re one of those people,” she shot back.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am, and I think that’s where we have to start. I really hate to discuss this sort of thing over the phone—you never know who might be listening—but I guess it doesn’t really matter right now. What matters is getting Angel out of jail.”

  When Benny hesitated, Charlotte said, “If it makes you feel any better, I can’t imagine why anyone would be listening in to either of us. For one, the police think they’ve solved their case, and secondly, the real killer thinks he’s in the clear, what with Angel in jail.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. After all this time I tend to be paranoid where Angel is concerned.”

  “Being paranoid is not necessarily a bad thing, especially in circumstances like this one. Believe me, I know. So, tell me what you know about Angel.”

  Chapter 9

  Benny sighed deeply. “Well, here goes nothing. Her real name is Martha Pate—Marti, for short. Believe it or not, her father was a Baptist preacher.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was killed in an accident the summer after Angel graduated from high school. From what she’s told me about him, he wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. Nope, not a nice man at all, considering his profession. From everything that Angel’s said about him, he was one of those uptight, strict, controlling types.”

  Though Charlotte was surprised about Angel’s background, after she thought about it a moment, she decided she shouldn’t be. That Angel was actually a PK, a preacher’s kid, made perfect sense. The strain on the children and wives of ministers was tremendous. They were expected to be perfect, which of course was ridiculous. No one but Jesus Christ was perfect. But because of the high expectations, there were many PKs who ended up rebelling by being real problem children. Of course there were also many that turned out to be just fine.

  “She grew up in a small town in Mississippi called Oakdale,” Benny continued. “Actually, it’s not that far from Jackson, about halfway between Hammond and Jackson. Before we began shooting, Angel had me take her to Oakdale to visit her mother.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her brow in thought. She couldn’t recall the town, so why did the name Oakdale sound so familiar? Where had she heard that name before? Then, suddenly, she remembered. Not heard, but seen. She’d seen the name on the sweater of the stuffed bulldog in Angel’s dressing room—one of the do-not-touch items that Heather had told her about.

  “Angel is a little superstitious and calls it her good-luck charm.”

  A knowing smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. Heather had called it being “superstitious,” but now that she knew more about Angel’s background, Charlotte suspected it was nostalgia, Angel’s one connection to her real identity. That, along with the other do-not-touch item, the eight-by-ten framed picture of an older couple and a little girl standing in front of what appeared to be a church. Angel and her parents. No, not Angel, not then. Then, she was Marti, Marti Pate.

  “Miss Charlotte? Are you still there?”

  With a slight shake of her head to clear out the cobwebs of speculation, Charlotte said, “Yes, I’m here. Sorry, guess I was lost in thought there for a moment.”

  “Well, how about it?”

  Uh-oh. Guess she’d been more lost in thought than she’d realized. “Sorry, how about what?” she asked.

  “What say you and I take a little trip to Mississippi and see what we can find there?”

  “I say that sounds like an excellent idea. I’ve already cleared my schedule for two weeks anyway, and I don’t think they’ll be resuming shooting any time soon.”

  “Could you be ready to leave in the morning?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Great! I’ll pick you up around eight. Oh, and pack a bag, at least for a couple of days.”

  “Good idea. See you in the morning.” Charlotte hung up the receiver. Her mind on packing a suitcase, she headed for the bedroom. Halfway there, she remembered Louis’s message about checking his mail and did an about-face. At the front door, she glanced over at Sweety Boy’s cage.

  “Hmm, two days,” she murmured. She should probably have someone come in and feed Sweety Boy. Maybe Madeline? No, not Madeline. For one thing, Sweety didn’t like Madeline. Every time she came near his case, he squawked and thrashed around inside the cage like a wild thing. For two, she’d learned a long time ago that her sister wasn’t that dependable.

  Judith or Carol would be her best bet. Of course then she would have to explain about where she was going and why. After a moment she shook her head. Sweety could get by okay for just the couple of days that she and Benny would be gone, especially if she left extra helpings of food and water, and an extra cuttlebone. After all, when she’d first discovered the little bird in her former, deadbeat tenant’s half of the double, as best she could calculate, the tenant had been gone at least a week and Sweety had survived then. Barely, but he had survived. With extra food and water, he’d be just fine. At least that was what she kept telling herself as she went out onto the porch.

  Louis’s mailbox was stuffed, and so was hers. With everything that had happened during the week, mail was the last thing on her mind.

  She’d often thought about having a mail slot installed in both front doors, but never seemed to get around to it. Besides, she found the thought of having a hole in her door that anyone could push open and see inside unappealing, to say the least.

  Inside again, she squashed the temptation to sneak a peek at what type of mail Louis received. After separating the envelopes from the magazines, she shuffled all of it, and placed it in a neat stack on the coffee table. Once she’d separated her own mail into bills and junk mail, she placed the bills on her desk and threw the junk mail into the trash can.

  Glancing around, she tried to think of anything else that needed doing.

  Nothing but packing.

  Packing. Right! Doing an about-face, she once again headed for the bedroom.

  The sleepy little town of Oakdale reminded Charlotte of a town in North Louisiana called Minden, only smaller. She and her family had evacuated to a small community near Minden during Hurricane Katrina, and again more recently during Hurricane Gustav. Minden was a really nice town, and from the looks of Oakdale, she figured it was probably a really nice town as well.

  “It’s almost lunchtime,” Benny said as they drove slowly through the streets of the downtown area. “Are you hungry?”

  Charlotte nodded. “I could use a bite.”

  “If I remember right, there’s a pretty nice local restaurant just on the other side of town—not fancy, but good food. And not far from there is a Holiday Inn. I figure that we should probably check in to the motel first, then go eat.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she told him, but her mind was stuck on the word fancy as she took in the old-fashioned storefronts, mostly constructed with bricks. There were a couple of banks, a drugstore, several antique shops, a dress shop, a florist, and even a barbershop, complete with an old-fashioned barber pole.

  Charlotte couldn’t help grinning as time after time, heads turned and people stared openly at them. Talk about fancy, from the expressions on the faces of the townsfolk, evidently not too many limousines drove through town. Either that or they were trying to figure out what celebrity was being squired around and why.

  If only they knew, she thought. Wouldn’t they be surprised to learn that the only person being chauffeured around was a maid?

  No one could have been more surprised than she had been when Benny had pulled up in her driveway earlier that morning in the long white limousine that was leased to Angel for her stay in New Orleans. Charlotte co
uldn’t remember the last time, if ever, that she’d ridden in a limousine. When she’d protested, Benny had simply shrugged and told her that the limo was the only vehicle he had to drive. Of course she had immediately offered her van for the trip instead, but he’d insisted that since they were on a business trip, for Angel, they would use her limo.

  Not knowing what else to do or say, she’d finally given in. It was when he had opened the back door and motioned for her to climb inside that she’d balked. She’d told him that there was no way that she was going to ride in the backseat all by herself like some highfalutin society lady while he chauffeured her all the way to Oakdale, Mississippi. Either she rode up front with him or they took her van.

  “That’s the restaurant,” Benny pointed out as they passed an older redbrick building. “And here’s the motel,” he added, a few minutes later.

  The motel looked to be fairly new, and the rooms were clean and nicely decorated in earthen tones. After checking in and unpacking their suitcases, Charlotte suggested that they walk to the restaurant instead of driving, and Benny agreed.

  When they entered Karen’s Café and Catering, Charlotte’s mouth watered at the delicious aromas wafting through the air. “It smells wonderful,” she told Benny. “Either that or I’m hungrier than I thought.”

  From what she could see from the foyer entry, the restaurant was small with a homey, yet slightly formal atmosphere. An attractive, middle-aged woman dressed in a black silky pants suit greeted them. Smiling, she said, “I’m Joanne, your hostess. Table for two?” When Benny nodded, she showed them to a nearby table covered with a white linen tablecloth, linen napkins to match, a full setting of china, what appeared to be crystal glasses, and a complete layout of silverware. In the middle of the table was a small bouquet of fresh flowers arranged around a lone candle.