Polished Off

by Barbara Colley

  Chapter Twenty-one

  What other reason would she have, then? Charlotte never had answered Judith’s question. She’d simply shrugged and said she didn’t know. And she didn’t know. But even now, long after Judith had left, the question still nagged at her as she slipped on an apron and began cleaning the kitchen.

  Maybe she should have told Judith the other stuff she’d learned about Patsy as well, especially the scandal concerning Patsy and Lowell Webster’s relationship.

  Then again, the scandal about Patsy and Lowell was just gossip. Granted, the gossip came from what she considered reliable sources, but, knowing her niece, Charlotte was sure Judith wouldn’t see it that way. She’d see it as just gossip, strictly hearsay.

  Besides, after the ridicule and humiliation she’d suffered on Friday from Louis and Judith, she couldn’t see submitting herself to that kind of derision again.

  As Charlotte loaded the last of her lunch dishes into the dishwasher, she thought about the other things that Nadia had told her as well. According to Nadia, there was a definite connection between Mark Webster and Ricco Martinez. Nadia had said that Mark Webster was behind the cemetery thefts and he’d involved Ricco. She’d also said that the two men had argued over money that Mark owed Ricco—probably money from some shady deal they had going, or maybe even money they had gotten from the cemetery thefts.

  Charlotte poured detergent into the slot in the door of the dishwasher. If she remembered right, it was about that time that Patsy had questioned Nadia about her bruises and found out about the two men’s connection.

  Patsy again. To Charlotte it seemed that everything kept circling back to Lowell and Patsy. “And where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” she murmured.

  But was there fire?

  According to Jane Calhoun there was. Jane had said, “That’s when she swore that one day Lowell would pay for what he’d done to her.”

  What if Patsy had finally found the perfect vehicle for revenge after all these years? What if she’d either murdered Ricco herself or had hired someone to murder him, then stuffed him into the urn. Bitsy had more or less implied that Patsy had just been putting on a show with all of her screaming, and a dead body being discovered in a stolen urn in Lowell’s warehouse would go a long way toward sullying his reputation and possibly ruining his chances to become mayor.

  Charlotte shook her head as she closed the dishwasher door. “Talk about a conspiracy theory,” she muttered. Wouldn’t Judith and Louis have a field day with that one? “Wouldn’t work, anyway,” she murmured, deep in thought. Why would Patsy stuff Ricco’s body in an urn then buy the urn for herself? Unless ... she’d hired someone else to kill him and didn’t realize he’d been stuffed into the urn. Someone could have found out and decided to turn the tables on Patsy—someone like Lowell.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Too, too weird,” she murmured. But even as she dismissed her theory as being too far-fetched, an idea began to form. Whether Patsy had anything to do with Ricco’s death or not, she was mixed up in the mess in some way. So why not simply come right out and ask her about Will Richeaux, Ricco, and Lowell Webster?

  Yeah, right. And what makes you think she’d give you a straight answer? Charlotte shrugged away the thought and latched the dishwasher door. But for long moments, she stood there, staring out the window above the sink. More than likely, Patsy would either tell her to mind her own business or deny knowing anything at all. She might get upset enough to even fire her.

  Then again, if asked the right questions in the right way, Patsy might be just itching to tell someone all about it, someone other than the police.

  “Assuming there’s anything to tell,” Charlotte muttered. Finally dismissing the idea as ludicrous and foolhardy, she turned away from the window and headed for her desk so that she could finish entering the expense receipts into the weekly log.

  But once seated at the desk, she hesitated, and the idea of confronting Patsy with what she’d learned began to take root and grow. Then, like an ugly weed determined to choke off the root, another thought occurred. Even if Patsy wasn’t guilty of murdering Ricco, it was clear that she was involved in some way. And if Patsy was involved, confronting her might make her panic. It could be just the thing to push her into doing something rash.

  Charlotte shivered, remembering another time she’d confronted a client who had been involved in a murder. She’d had to fight for her life that time.

  “But you won,” she muttered. Yeah, and you had nightmares about it for weeks afterward.

  Charlotte drummed her fingers against the desktop. That time she hadn’t expected to confront the murderer face to face. She hadn’t been prepared. This time would be different. There had to be some way she could prepare for the confrontation—some way to minimize the danger to herself.

  Suddenly her fingers went still. Out of the blue, what seemed like the perfect solution came to her. She’d use Judith as her excuse. She’d simply let Patsy know that Judith was expecting her and that Judith knew she was stopping by to see Patsy first.

  Then what? Abruptly Charlotte sighed, defeated again. Even if she could get Patsy to talk or confess, it would still be hearsay. Unless ...

  Charlotte reached down, pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for.

  Several years back she’d bought the small, voice-activated tape recorder with intentions of keeping notes on each client’s likes and dislikes. She’d used it for a while but had found it much less practical than she’d thought it would be.

  Digging into the drawer again, Charlotte found a package of unopened batteries and a blank tape still wrapped in cellophane. Once she’d popped the old batteries out of the tape recorder, she replaced them with new ones. Then she unwrapped the tape and slipped it into the tape player as well.

  “Now,” she murmured. “All set to go.” Pushing the red RECORD button, she began speaking. “Testing, testing. One, two, three, testing.” After rewinding the tape, she listened. Satisfied that the tape player still worked, she set it on the desk in front of her.

  Then the internal battle began in earnest. For a solid hour Charlotte forced herself to sit at the desk. Entering the receipts didn’t take long, but even after she’d finished, she sat there, staring at the tape recorder as she once again weighed the pros and cons of confronting Patsy.

  One minute she’d talk herself out of doing such a foolish thing, then the next minute she’d picture her sweet, funny nephew dressed in an ugly orange jumpsuit, sitting in a tiny, windowless jail cell.

  When Charlotte opened her front door, she shivered. Though the sun was shining and it wasn’t really all that cold, the steady breeze put a chill in the air.

  Over the years Charlotte had found that she could stand the heat a lot better than she could stand the cold, so as a precaution, she had slipped on a lightweight jacket before she left. Besides, she figured that since the jacket had deep pockets on either side, it would be easier to hide the tape recorder.

  The trip to Patsy’s house was only about a ten-minute drive. Plenty of time to change her mind. At least that’s what Charlotte kept telling herself as she bumped along the uneven pavement down Milan Street.

  She’d considered phoning ahead first, just to make sure Patsy was home, but at the last minute she’d chickened out. She’d also considered making up some kind of excuse once she was there as to why she was coming to see Patsy on a Saturday afternoon. After thinking about it, though, she’d opted to simply wing it.

  When Charlotte got to Patsy’s house, she noted that Patsy’s Mercedes was in the driveway. As she slowed down the van, her foot hovered over the brake, but at the last minute she stepped on the accelerator instead and drove past the house.

  Only after she’d circled the block twice more did she finally gather enough courage to pull over and park the van in her usual spot alongside the curb near the corner of the huge mansion.

  Before she got out she turned the t
ape recorder on and slipped it inside her jacket pocket. Halfway to the door, she paused. She’d just about made up her mind to forget the whole thing, to turn around and go home, when the front door swung open.

  “Why, Charlotte, this is a surprise,” Patsy called out. “What are you doing here on a Saturday afternoon?”

  At the sight of Patsy, Charlotte was too stunned to move or speak for a moment. The woman looked like death warmed over. Her hair had a dirty, dull look about it and hung limply around her face, and she was dressed in oversized, faded jeans and a ratty-looking Saints T-shirt, worn thin from one too many washings. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and, with no makeup, her sallow face was even more homely than usual.

  Charlotte had never seen Patsy look so slovenly. Something must have happened, but what?

  As if Patsy had guessed what Charlotte was thinking, she crossed her arms and stared at the floor of the porch. “I was just coming out to check the mail,” she said, by way of explanation.

  Charlotte forced herself to walk to the steps. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead.” She trudged up the steps on leaden feet. “I was on my way to meet my niece for a bit of shopping and decided that this was as good a time as any to talk to you about something. Since your house was on the way, I phoned ahead and told her I’d be stopping by for a minute.” The lie caused a twinge of guilt, but Charlotte ignored the twinge and forced a smile. “But if it’s not a good time right now,” she hastened to add, “I can come back later.”

  Nervous sweat trickled down Charlotte’s back, and she held her breath while she waited for Patsy’s response.

  Please say it’s not a good time ... please.

  Patsy shrugged, gave a wan smile, then motioned for Charlotte to come inside. “Now’s as good a time as any. But I hope you’re not going to tell me that you’ve decided to retire. I don’t think I could take that on top of everything else that’s going on right now.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, nothing like that, but has—has something happened? You seem upset.”

  “I am. First, there’s all of this stuff about those bones, and now, Missy.” Patsy backed away from the door opening to let Charlotte inside. “I-I may have to have her put to sleep. Dr. Janseen thinks she might have cancer....” Patsy’s voice trailed away as she closed and locked the door.

  Charlotte frowned. “Oh, poor Missy. And poor you. I’m so sorry.” She followed Patsy down the hallway and into the front parlor. “I know how much that little dog means to you.”

  Patsy nodded. “She’s been my baby for a long time now. Almost twelve years.” She motioned for Charlotte to be seated on the sofa. “But she hasn’t been eating much lately, and she’s been whining and crying a lot. Then, when I noticed some blood in her stools yesterday, I knew something was definitely wrong, and I took her straight to the vet. They kept her for observation and a few more tests, just to make sure.”

  Charlotte eased down onto the sofa, and not knowing exactly how to respond, she said, “Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

  Patsy gave a halfhearted shrug and sat in a chair opposite the sofa. “As they say, only time will tell.” After a moment, she sighed deeply, then said, “So, Charlotte, what was it you needed to talk to me about?”

  For a second Charlotte was tempted again to make up some story about the cleaning schedule for the upcoming week. But like a kaleidoscope, mental images flashed through her mind: Daniel ... little Davy crying for his mother... Nadia ...

  Charlotte swallowed hard. “I’m here to talk about Ricco Martinez’s murder. And I’m here to talk about Will Richeaux and Lowell Webster.”

  What little color Patsy had slowly drained from her face as she stared at Charlotte for what seemed like an interminable length of time.

  Though the polite side of Charlotte felt the need to further clarify what she’d said, to further explain, she forced herself to hold her tongue for the moment, mostly to see what Patsy’s reaction would be.

  Finally, Patsy blinked several times and seemed to get a hold on herself. “Wh-why would you want to talk about those men? Especially to me?” she added.

  Charlotte’s insides churned. In for a penny, in for a pound. Now came the hard part. She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. “Because I think you know all three of them,” she said evenly. “And I also think that Will Richeaux and Lowell Webster are connected in some way to the murder of Ricco Martinez.”

  “Wh-what on earth are you talking about?” Patsy sputtered.

  Charlotte held up her hand and ticked off each point with her fingers. “For one, you and Lowell Webster have a history. Number two, you forget, I saw the look on your face when Will Richeaux showed up as the detective in charge. You were scared spitless for some reason, and I want to know why. And finally, last but not least, I know that Nadia told you all about Ricco and Mark Webster’s relationship.”

  “But—but none of that means anything,” Patsy exclaimed. “And how dare you come in here and accuse me like this. I-I—”

  Charlotte stiffened. “Oh, believe me. I dare,” she retorted sharply. “I dare because two innocent people who just happen to be a part of my family are taking the fall for something they didn’t do. And—to set the record straight—I’m not accusing you of anything—not yet. But, one way or another, I will find out what I need to know. Now, you can either tell me what you know, or you can tell my niece, who, by the way, is also a police detective. So—do you deny knowing Lowell Webster?”

  From Patsy’s expression, Charlotte could see that she was weighing the pros and cons of answering her. Finally, in a haughty voice so cold it made Charlotte shiver, she said, “I think you already know the answer to that question.” Still glaring at Charlotte, Patsy abruptly stood. Then she began pacing. “And furthermore,” she continued, “I think you already know all about our so-called sordid relationship. But what you don’t know is that he ruined my life. Thanks to Lowell Webster, I was never able to have a family of my own.”

  The more she talked, the more irritated she seemed to become, and Charlotte watched her warily.

  Patsy held up two fingers and shook them at Charlotte. “I’ve been married twice and divorced twice. You see, both of those men wanted families, wanted children.

  “Oh, in the beginning they said children didn’t matter. Yeah, right! Now I know better. Why else would they have both divorced me? And as for Lowell, I’ve thought about killing him at least a thousand times. Thought about it,” she emphasized, glaring at Charlotte. “But thinking about it and doing it are two different things. Besides, killing him is too good for him, too easy.”

  “So you came up with a way to make him suffer instead.”

  Patsy stopped her pacing to stand just to the right of Charlotte. She was breathing hard, and there was a strange smile on her lips that raised goose bumps on Charlotte’s arms.

  Patsy shook her head and gestured wildly with her hands. “Not just suffer. Even that’s not enough. With Ricco Martinez’s help, I could have ruined Lowell forever like he ruined me. I could have ruined that precious reputation he’s so proud of.”

  Patsy leaned forward until she was just inches from Charlotte’s face. She was still breathing hard, and Charlotte got a whiff of something that smelled suspiciously like liquor on her breath.

  “I could have ruined his chances of ever being in politics again,” Patsy told her. “And I still can!” she yelled in Charlotte’s face.

  In a sudden, unexpected move, Patsy grabbed a large glass vase on the end table next to the sofa and swung it at Charlotte’s head.

  Charlotte threw up her hand to ward off the blow, but she wasn’t quick enough. When the vase hit her, blinding white pain erupted in her head. The room spun. Her vision blurred. Then there was nothing but the black void of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When Charlotte came to, she was flat on her back and there was a dull throbbing in her head. When she opened her eyes, she panicked. Darkness. Nothing bu
t darkness. She blinked several times, but blinking didn’t help. Nothing had changed. It was still dark.

  Oh, dear Lord, was she blind? Had the blow to her head caused her to go blind?

  Closing her eyes again, she reached up and gingerly explored the side of her head with her fingers. Just back from her left temple was a bump that felt like the size of a golf ball. Though the bump was really sore and painful, as far as she could tell there was no blood, which meant that the skin hadn’t been broken.

  She opened her eyes again, but she was afraid to even move. She thought about trying to get to her feet, but she squelched the instinct for the moment.

  “Easy does it,” she whispered. “One step at a time.”

  For now the throbbing was bearable, but she suspected that any sudden movement could change that status. Ever so slowly, ever so carefully, she turned her head first to one side and then to the other, testing the threshold of pain. And that’s when she saw it.

  Right near her feet, barely visible, was a hair-thin sliver of light just beneath what she figured had to be a door. Her eyes blurred with grateful tears, and she blinked them away. At least now she knew for sure that she wasn’t blind.

  Think Charlotte. Think. With her head still pounding, it was difficult to think of anything but the pain and how frightened she was. Even so, she had to try.

  Charlotte concentrated on the light she’d seen, the light beneath the door. But a door to what? Where was she? And, even more urgent, where was Patsy and what did she plan to do with her?

  Only one way to find out, Charlotte decided. Shifting her body to her left side, and thanking the good Lord that Patsy hadn’t tied her up, she reached over with her right hand and pushed herself up until she could rest on her left elbow.

  Her head throbbed, and she felt dizzy, even in the dark, so she waited a moment to see if the sensation would pass.