Polished Off (Charlotte LaRue Mystery Series, Book 3)

by Barbara Colley

  The moment her fingers touched the first prickly object, she immediately recognized it as the bristles of a broom.

  The pantry. She had to be in the pantry.

  If she remembered right, Patsy kept the broom in the oversized kitchen pantry. By the process of elimination, it made sense that Patsy would have put her in the pantry, since she would have had to drag her to wherever she put her, and the pantry was the nearest closet that was large enough.

  A mental image of the walk-in pantry came to mind. All in all, she calculated that it measured about five feet wide and six feet deep. There were narrow built-in shelves that went from the floor to the ceiling on three sides. Each of the side shelves was filled with canned goods and groceries, while the back shelves contained various other miscellaneous items.

  Again Charlotte looked back at the sliver of light beneath the door. Was there a lock on the outside of the door? She couldn’t remember seeing one, but, then, she’d never really paid much attention to whether it had a lock or not.

  She slid herself over to the door and felt around until she located the doorknob. When the doorknob twisted freely, sudden hope sprang in her heart. But when she pushed against the door and nothing happened, the hope died.

  Evidently, Patsy must have something blocking it or she’d wedged something against it.

  Now what? “Now nothing,” she whispered, disappointment knifing through her. If only she had her cell phone, she could call for help. But, darn it all, she’d left it in her purse and left her purse locked in the van.

  She could always scream, but the house was isolated from its neighbors. No one would hear her if she yelled her head off. No one but Patsy. And the last thing she wanted was to attract Patsy’s attention. There was really nothing she could do but wait. Wait and pray.

  Charlotte had no way of knowing how long she sat there, waiting and praying in the dark, and when she first heard the noise, she wondered if she was hallucinating.

  Not hallucinating, she finally decided. The footsteps were real, and so were the voices, and both voices were getting louder by the second, which meant that whoever the voices belonged to, those people were headed for the kitchen.

  Again, hope sprang within her. If someone else was there, maybe that person would help her. She scooted nearer the door and pressed her ear against it. Sure enough, she could detect the muffled voices of Patsy and some man.

  “What are you doing here?” she heard Patsy say. “What do you want?”

  “More to the point, what is Charlotte LaRue doing here?”

  Will Richeaux. Even as Charlotte’s hope for help died, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. But how had he known that she was at Patsy’s in the first place?

  “She works for me,” Patsy answered belligerently. “And since when do the police check up on maids?”

  “Since maids get too nosy for their own good,” he snapped.

  Judith’s confrontation with him earlier that morning came to mind, and Charlotte’s insides churned. Had he, like Louis, come to the same conclusions about her involvement? How else would he know that she was there? Unless he had followed Judith to her house, put two and two together, then followed her.

  Had she been followed? Charlotte had to admit that she didn’t know. She’d been too caught up in trying to decide whether to confront Patsy to pay attention to anything else.

  “Where is she, and what does she want?” he demanded.

  “I told you she works for me.”

  “Not on a Saturday afternoon, she doesn’t.”

  “So? Maybe I hired her to do some extra work.”

  “Yeah, right, and maybe I’m the king of Rex. Now, answer me. Where is she? And don’t lie. Her van is still outside, so I know she’s in here somewhere.”

  “Ouch! Let go of me. That hurts.”

  “It’s gonna hurt a lot worse unless you tell me where that nosy maid is.”

  Charlotte winced. She shouldn’t have cared what Will Richeaux thought, one way or the other. But no one had ever accused her of being “nosy” before, and that hurt almost as much as the lump on the side of her head.

  “In there,” Patsy screeched. “She’s back there in the pantry.”

  “And just what does that mean?”

  “It means she’s in the pantry where I put her.”

  “Where you put her? And why in hell would you put her in the pantry?”

  “Ouch! That hurts. Please don’t—”

  “Then answer the question.”

  “I-I sort of knocked her out.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “ ’Cause she was asking too many questions ... about Ricco Martinez.”

  “What kind of questions?” When no answer was forthcoming, Will Richeaux made a noise of pure frustration. “What’s with you, lady? First you try that half-baked scheme with that cemetery junk. Even a moron could have figured out that Ricco Martinez wasn’t about to bite off the hand feeding him. What happened? Did he turn on you—try to shake you down?” He laughed, but it was an ugly sound that made Charlotte’s stomach turn.

  “That’s exactly what he did, didn’t he? He tried to blackmail you. What’d he do? Threaten to go to the police if you didn’t pay up?” Again he laughed. “You should have paid him, you stupid cow. But not because he’d run to the police. Believe me, the police were the last people someone like him wanted to tangle with. You should have realized that he’d run straight to Lowell.

  “Well, he won’t be running to anyone anymore, will he? I warned you once before about bothering Mr. Webster, but this time you went too far. We had hoped that if and when Martinez’s body was found, you’d finally get the message, and everything was working out just fine until that nosy maid started snooping around.”

  We? Charlotte’s heart pounded. Did “we” include Mark or Lowell Webster?

  “I knew it!” Patsy screeched. “When I realized that you were a cop, I knew I’d been set up. You’re the one who killed him,” she accused.

  “No—not me personally. I don’t usually dirty my hands with that part of the job. Mr. Webster has other people who take care of stuff like that. But now you’ve gone and jeopardized everything—you and that maid. You’ve left me no choice.”

  “Wh-what are you doing? Oh no! Please don’t—please, I’m begging you—”

  A loud popping sound made Charlotte jumped. Oh, dear Lord. Was that a gunshot? If it was, then for sure she’d be the next victim on his list.

  Charlotte scrambled to her feet, but the sudden move caused her head to swim. She grabbed hold of the door frame for support until the dizzy sensation passed.

  What to do ... what to do? Any minute Will Richeaux would be opening the door to get to her. If only there was some way to get him first, a way to launch a surprise attack of some kind.

  “This is Will. Let me speak to the boss.”

  Charlotte froze for a second before realizing that he had to be talking to someone on the phone. Had he decided to call Lowell Webster? Good, she thought. She didn’t care who he talked to. The longer he talked, the more time she had.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Charlotte heard him say. “I know what he told you about me calling him there. Just tell him I said this is an emergency.”

  A memory niggled at the back of Charlotte’s head as she frantically ran her hands over the canned goods stacked on the shelves, looking for something, anything she could use as a weapon. Then she remembered what was bothering her. On the day she’d gone to Lowell Webster’s office, he’d received an unwelcome phone call while she’d been cleaning his office bathroom. She’d overheard him tell the caller in no uncertain terms that he was never to call him at the office, which meant it was possible that the caller had been Will Richeaux that day. If only she’d realized then ...

  But now wasn’t the time to dwell on “if only’s.” What she needed now was a weapon. An idea began to form. Although she couldn’t recall the name of the movie, she did remember one of the scenes where a teena
ger who was in jail used his T-shirt filled with canned drinks for a weapon. Why couldn’t she do the same?

  Listening intently to Will Richeaux, Charlotte slipped out of her jacket.

  “Just wanted to let you know I’ve run into a little problem,” she heard him say.

  The heaviness on one side of the jacket reminded her that the tape recorder was still in the pocket. Vaguely wondering if it had continued to record, she dug it out of the pocket and shoved it into her pants pocket.

  She quickly spread her jacket on the floor, and as she placed several of the canned goods in it, she thought of yet another idea. If she remembered right, Patsy kept a large bottle of cooking oil on the bottom shelf near the canned goods.

  Charlotte tilted her head closer to the door and was relieved to hear Will still talking.

  “... one more little problem to take care of ...” she heard him say. Knowing he was talking about her, her fingers trembled as she quickly ran them along the shelves, searching for the bottle of cooking oil.

  How much longer? she wondered, her ear attuned to any noise outside the pantry that would indicate that Will had finished his conversation. And where was that cooking oil?

  Bingo! Charlotte’s fingers grasped the large plastic bottle she’d found. From the way it felt and the size of it, she was sure that it had to be the oil. She twisted off the top and stuck her finger inside. When she pulled out her finger, then rubbed her finger and thumb together, relief washed through her. As she suspected, she had found the oil.

  Using the sliver of light beneath the door for a guide, she stepped over to the door, dropped to her knees, and poured a stream of the oil on the floor along the threshold of the door. Using both hands, she spread it out, careful to keep it on the inside of the pantry.

  Satisfied, and ever aware that time was of the essence, she eased back to where she’d left the jacket. Her hands were slick and greasy with oil and were sure to leave stains. Too bad, she thought, as she gathered up the edges of the garment over the canned goods and stood. Having a stained jacket was preferable any day to being dead.

  With a grunt, she hefted the jacket full of cans over her shoulder like a bat, then flattened herself against the wall near the door, and she waited. All she could do now was hope that her plan would work.

  A sudden click made Charlotte jump.

  The tape recorder. It had been recording the whole time. Dare she hope that it had picked up some of Will and Patsy’s argument? Though it was doubtful that the machine had picked up any of it due to the distance, at least she’d have Patsy’s tirade on tape.

  The sound of heavy footsteps drew her attention, and as she tensed, she forgot about the tape recorder. She tightened her grip around the gathered jacket but could do nothing to stop the trembling in her legs except to pray that they would hold her up. There was a bumping, scraping sound, then the doorknob twisted, and the door swung open.

  “I know you’re in there,” Will sneered. Then, in a singsong voice, he said, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  With her heart pounding and her knees knocking, Charlotte blinked rapidly in an effort to force her eyes to adjust from the darkness of the closed closet to the sudden, blinding light at the door.

  “I said come out of there!” Will snarled.

  His hand that held the gun suddenly appeared around the edge of the door, and Charlotte tensed, ready to swing. Then everything happened so fast that all she could do was stand frozen and watch.

  The moment Will took a step inside, his foot slipped in the oil. “What the—” With a yelp of surprise, he flung out his free hand for balance but only grabbed air. His feet went out from under him, and as he fell, Charlotte winced when his head hit the edge of the lower shelf with a thu-whacking sound, followed by the rest of his body hitting the floor with a thud.

  Charlotte tensed, ready to clobber him with the cans, but she hesitated when she realized that he wasn’t moving.

  His head was turned to the side and his eyes were closed When a moment more passed and he still hadn’t moved or tried to get up, Charlotte feared he might be dead.

  Her gaze slid down to his chest. No, not dead. Not yet. The movement was ever so slight, but he was still breathing. Her gaze traveled back to his face. It was the sight of blood pooling beneath his head that finally spurred her into action. She needed to get out and call for help, but the only way out was the pantry doorway, and Will Richeaux’s body was blocking it

  With visions of him regaining consciousness and reaching up and grabbing her any minute, she took a deep breath and jumped over him.

  When she successfully landed on the outside of the pantry without slipping or falling, she felt like sobbing with relief. But the relief was short-lived when Will emitted a groan.

  Terrified that any minute he would come to, Charlotte dropped the jacket and cans and threw all of her weight against the door. Using the door for leverage, inch by inch, she was able to shove him far enough inside the pantry so that she could get the door closed.

  With all of her weight against the door, Charlotte glanced around for something to use to jam the door shut. Patsy had used something, but what?

  Then she spied a door guard propped against the wall and grabbed it. She jammed the yoke of the steel rod under the doorknob and braced the gripper base that anchored the device against the floor. She tested the strength of the door guard by pulling hard on the doorknob. Satisfied that the door wouldn’t open, she went in search of Patsy and a telephone.

  Charlotte found Patsy sprawled on the kitchen floor. From the looks of the blood on Patsy’s blouse, Will had shot her in the chest. Since Charlotte couldn’t detect any breathing movement, she knelt down and felt for a pulse.

  Though Patsy’s pulse was thready, she was still alive ... but just barely. Charlotte jumped to her feet and hurried to the phone on the wall near the cabinet. With trembling fingers she pressed the numbers 9-1-1.

  Once she’d given the operator her location and described the emergency, she was told to stay on the line until help arrived. Charlotte ignored the instructions, depressed the switch-hook, and immediately called Judith.

  Judith answered on the third ring. “Judith, this is Aunt Charley.”

  “What’s wrong, Auntie?”

  “I’m at Patsy Dufour’s, and I need you to get here A.S.A.P Patsy’s been sh-shot, and I-I’ve got Will Richeaux locked up in the pantry. He’s injured, too. I’ve already called nine-one-one, and I’ll explain it all when you get here.”

  “And you? Are you okay, Aunt Charley?”

  “No—yes. I mean I’m fine, I think. But, Judith, please hurry.”

  “Okay, okay, now just calm down. The first thing I want you to do is get out of the house. Go straight to your van, lock yourself inside, and stay there until the police get there. I’m on my way.”

  Charlotte hung up the phone, then stared down at Patsy.

  What goes around comes around, and people get paid back for the things they do. No one would blame her if she did as Judith had instructed and left Patsy, not after what Patsy had done. Charlotte swallowed hard.

  She couldn’t do it.

  For reasons Charlotte couldn’t begin to fathom, she couldn’t leave Patsy all alone in spite of what Patsy had tried to do to her. Besides which, Patsy was the only one who could corroborate what Will Richeaux had said about Lowell Webster’s part in Ricco’s murder.

  And what about Will Richeaux? Charlotte couldn’t explain it, but the thought of leaving him by himself didn’t bother her one iota. The only feeling she had for him was fear.

  Charlotte reached down and smoothed back a strand of Patsy’s hair. She figured that Patsy was probably in shock from her wound. And she was probably dying.

  Charlotte’s mind raced. In all of the movies, didn’t they always cover the victim? Maybe to keep them warm or hold in their body heat. Whichever, it certainly couldn’t hurt, and it might actually help save her life.


  With her ears attuned to any sound from the pantry, Charlotte hurried off in search for something to cover Patsy with.

  She found what she was looking for in the sitting room. In a basket beside the sofa was a folded crocheted afghan. She snatched up the afghan and rushed back into the kitchen.

  After covering Patsy, there was nothing else to do but wait for help to come. “You hang in there, Patsy,” she murmured.

  The sound of distant sirens suddenly broke through the silence. “Thank goodness,” Charlotte murmured. With one last glance at Patsy, she hurried to the front door.

  Police cars and two ambulances arrived within seconds of each other. When Charlotte saw that Billy Wilson was among the officers striding toward the porch, she almost cried with relief.

  “Inside,” she told the officers, motioning toward the front hallway. “Straight back, the last door on the left, there’s a lady who’s been shot. There’s also a man—” She cleared her threat. “There’s a man locked in the pantry. He’s been injured, too. He’s the one who shot the lady.”

  Out of the comer of her eye, Charlotte spotted Judith’s car pull in alongside one of the squad cars.

  “What happened here, Ms. LaRue?” Billy asked her.

  When Charlotte opened her mouth to explain, her knees suddenly went weak, so weak that she could barely stand, and she couldn’t utter a word.

  “Whoa, now—” Billy grabbed hold of her arm. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?”

  All Charlotte could manage was to nod as she allowed Billy to help her to a nearby wicker chair.

  “Hey, Bill, is she okay?” Judith ran up the porch steps. “Is she hurt?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Not hurt, hon,” she whispered.

  “Probably delayed reaction,” Billy offered.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Judith agreed, then knelt in front of Charlotte. “Auntie, I need to check out what’s going on inside? Bill will stay with you until I get back. Okay?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Do your job, hon,” she murmured. “I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”