Death Tidies Up

by Barbara Colley

  “What did you hear?”

  “A popping sound.” He shuddered. “A gunshot.” He heaved a sigh. “After that I heard footsteps. They sounded like whoever was there was leaving, but I waited anyway—waited for what seemed like hours before I finally figured it was safe enough to come out. Then I hauled butt.”

  “Oh, B.J., why didn’t you tell someone—your mom, maybe? Or better still, why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Duh! My fingerprints are probably all over the place—”

  “Ah, excuse me,” she drawled, “but I really don’t appreciate the sarcasm. I’m trying to help you, so show a little respect.”

  B.J. simply stared at her, then after several moments, he finally gave a grudging nod. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry. But like you said before, I’ve been in trouble a lot lately. The cops would think I killed him.”

  “What about your mom? Couldn’t you tell her?” B.J. rolled his eyes. “No way. She’d freak out for sure.”

  “So you’ve told no one.”

  “Well…not exactly. I did tell Sam.”

  “And?”

  “Sam said to forget it and just keep my mouth shut. He said sooner or later the cops would find the real killer.” He hesitated, then, “You believe me, don’t you, Ms. LaRue?” He held up his hand as if taking an oath. “I swear it’s the truth.”

  Charlotte managed a small, tentative smile. “I believe you, hon.” And she did. But she also recalled what Judith had told her about Katherine and Vince supplying each other with alibis. What if Vince was the man Katherine was with, the one B.J. didn’t recognize? And what if when they left the house, they saw Drew and decided to follow him? What if they confronted him, then killed him?

  “I believe you,” she murmured again. Then, carefully choosing her words, she said, “But I’m afraid I have to disagree with Sam. I think you need to go to the police and tell them exactly what you just told me.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, even to herself, the thought of how easily influenced B.J. was by Sam Roberts bothered her. There was just something about the man with his know-it-all attitude that set her teeth on edge.

  B.J. cast his eyes downward and shuffled his feet against the concrete walk. “Hmm…maybe.”

  Charlotte placed her hand on his shoulder. “Look, hon, think of it this way. Something you say just might help the police find the real killer—or at least give them a clue to the identity of the person who killed Mr. Bergeron.”

  “Maybe I ought to talk to Sam about it first.”

  Charlotte grimaced. Sam again. Unease snaked through her. And what if Sam said no? Then what? she wondered. If she went to Judith and told her what B.J. had revealed, she’d be betraying his confidence. Once confronted with his story, B.J. might clam up or worse, he might even deny everything. It would be better for everyone concerned if she could somehow persuade him to cooperate.

  Despite her own misgivings about Sam Roberts, Charlotte had to remind herself that he had been there for B.J. when the boy had needed someone. There was also the fact that Marian seemed to trust the handyman implicitly, and after all, Marian was B.J.’s mother. So who was she to question the man’s integrity?

  “Okay, B.J.,” she finally relented. “Talk to Sam again if it will make you feel better. But make it soon, okay?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Now, you’d better run along before your mom begins to worry.”

  B.J. didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed up his knapsack, shrugged into it, and left. And as Charlotte watched him hurry down the sidewalk, an idea began to take shape. For B.J.’s sake, maybe it was time that she had a talk with Sam Roberts herself.

  Almost immediately, Charlotte shied away from the idea. She was already involved more than she wanted to be, and approaching Sam Roberts was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

  With a sigh of frustration, she marched across the street to the van. But like a pesky mosquito, the idea simply wouldn’t go away. If Sam knew that B.J. had confided in her, she might persuade him to rethink his advice to the boy and use his influence to urge B.J. to go to the police.

  The more she thought about it on the drive home, the more it seemed like the only sensible thing to do. So if it was so sensible, why did she get the nervous heebie-jeebies just thinking about talking to Sam Roberts?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The minute Charlotte got home, she grabbed the telephone directory to see if Sam Roberts was listed. She’d thought about simply calling Marian to get his phone number, but she really didn’t want to do that unless she had no choice. Until she resolved her dilemma about B.J., the less contact she had with his mother, the better.

  But finding Sam Roberts wasn’t going to be that easy, she soon learned. There were six S. Roberts, but no Sam Roberts listed. Charlotte called all six of the numbers, but none turned out to be the Sam Roberts she was looking for.

  Next she tried Directory Assistance, but again, she hit a brick wall when she was politely told that his number was unlisted.

  “Now what?” she murmured, tapping out an impatient staccato rhythm with her fingers against the desktop and wondering why on earth someone in his line of business would have an unlisted number, of all things.

  Suddenly, her fingers stilled. There was no way around it, she finally decided. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to call Marian.

  Charlotte reached for the Rolodex. Marian would know his phone number and would probably know where he lived as well. Once she’d found Marian’s number, she hesitated, her fingers hovering above the dial pad on the phone.

  What excuse could she use for wanting to know Sam’s phone number and address? She finally decided that she could always claim that she had another client who needed some repairs done, or better yet, she could say that she needed something repaired herself.

  Marian answered Charlotte’s call on the third ring. Charlotte crossed her fingers for luck. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Marian, but I need Sam Roberts’ address. You see, the other day I asked him about repairing one of my kitchen chairs, and silly me—I forgot to get his address. I’d call him, but he’s not listed in the phone directory, so I was wondering if you happen to know where he lives.”

  The excuse had holes in it as big as the Grand Canyon, and Charlotte held her breath.

  Evidently, Marian didn’t notice. When she began rattling off the phone number and the address, Charlotte grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled down the information.

  Though Charlotte had never believed in putting off till tomorrow what she could do today, after she’d hung up the phone she sat for several moments, staring into space. Once again she weighed the pros and cons of the decision she’d made to talk to Sam.

  “Just do it,” she finally muttered. Before she could change her mind, she shoved away from the desk, grabbed her purse, and marched out of the house.

  The address Marian had given Charlotte was actually only a few blocks away. The house itself was also very similar in architecture to her own home and even included a small front porch and swing. The only difference was that Sam’s house was in much better repair than her house; unlike hers, his had what looked to be a fresh coat of paint.

  When Charlotte approached the address, she noted that there were no vehicles in either driveway, but she reasoned that his truck could be parked around back, since the driveways on either side went all the way to the back of the house.

  Did he own the double? she wondered. Or, like Louis, was he just renting one side of it?

  Charlotte parked the van near the curb in front, got out, then walked slowly to the steps. Her misgivings about being there in the first place grew with each step she took as she climbed the stairs up to the porch. Reminding herself that she was doing this for B.J. was the only thing that kept her from running back to the van and driving away.

  At the front door, she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed the doorbell and waited. When several moments passed and nothing happen
ed, she rang the doorbell again.

  Hindsight was a wonderful thing, she thought sarcastically as she waited. Not only had she rushed out without going to the bathroom, a chore she always took care of before leaving the house, but she hadn’t considered phoning ahead. If she’d phoned first, she could have saved herself the trouble and discomfort.

  But she hadn’t phoned ahead, and as she saw it, she now had two choices: She could hang around and wait until Sam showed up, or she could leave and come back again later.

  Since there was no way of telling when he might show up and she really needed a rest room anyway, Charlotte decided to leave. She also decided that before she went running off again, she’d call first next time. Turning away from the door, she crossed the porch and started back down the stairs.

  While part of her was relieved that no one was home, another part of her felt the disappointment and frustration clear to her toes. Then, at the bottom of the steps, something in the grass caught her eye and Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. Just to the left side of the bottom step was an object that looked suspiciously like a ground-out cigar butt.

  Paranoid, she thought, with a shake of her head. She was becoming paranoid over cigar butts, for Pete’s sake. Besides, as B.J. had so cleverly pointed out, just because it was the same brand didn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself; it could belong to anyone.

  But even as she muttered, “You’re being ridiculous,” she grabbed hold of the stair rail for support and nudged the butt with the toe of her shoe. Though it was smashed flat, it did have the same odd shape as the ones beneath B.J.’s bed and the one at the Devilier house.

  Charlotte was still staring at the cigar butt when the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway finally penetrated her concentration.

  She glanced up and her heart began to thud when she saw Sam Roberts climb out of his battered truck. The man really needed a haircut, she thought. And he needed to trim that scraggly beard. He might not look half bad if he cleaned up a bit…

  “Well, this is sure a surprise,” he called out. “What do I owe this honor to—No, wait, let me guess. You’ve finally decided to give in and let me have my wicked way with you.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard and summoned up a polite little smile. “Not hardly,” she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m here because I need to talk to you.”

  “Talking’s a good beginning.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “A little talk. A little—”

  “About B.J.” she hastened to add. “I’m here to talk to you about B.J.,” she with emphasis.

  Sam’s grin faded instantly, and for a moment, an odd expression flitted across his face. Was it hostility? Wariness? Charlotte couldn’t be sure, but almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her to wonder if once again her imagination was playing tricks on her.

  “What’s he done this time?” Sam asked her, his face now serious with worry.

  “Nothing, I hope,” she replied. “But that’s what we need to discuss.”

  The line of his mouth tightened a fraction, but he motioned toward the front door. “Well, come on in and let’s talk then.”

  Once again, misgivings about being there assailed her. Charlotte had been on her own for more years than she cared to count, and during that time, she’d learned to be cautious. There were just some things that a single woman didn’t do, and one of them was getting caught all alone in a strange house with a man she barely knew and didn’t really like in the first place.

  She’d come too far to back down now, but for a moment she debated if it would be considered rude to suggest that they sit out on the porch instead. Then she thought of B.J. and the enormity of the problems facing the teenager. She finally decided that too much was at stake to quibble over where she talked to Sam. The boy’s whole future could depend on this talk.

  Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and once again climbed the steps to the porch.

  The inside of Sam’s home wasn’t what she’d expected at all. For one thing, it had been remodeled to include a small hallway. And like Louis’ place, it looked nothing like she had imagined a bachelor’s house would look like. No dirty clothes lying around. No unwashed dishes or scattered magazines or newspapers. It was tidy and extremely sparse. But unlike Louis’ place, there was nothing at all in the way of personal effects. No paintings, no knickknacks or books, nothing to give her even a hint as to what type of man he might be.

  He motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? A Coke? Coffee? Or maybe something a little stronger?”

  “No—no, thanks. Nothing for me.” She stepped over to the sofa. “But you go ahead and get whatever you’d like.”

  He nodded, but as he turned and headed toward what she assumed was the kitchen, she called him back. “There is one thing, though,” she said. “I do need to use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.”

  In a matter-of-fact way that she truly appreciated, he pointed to another doorway. “Down the hall. Second door on your left.”

  Charlotte figured that the first door probably led to a bedroom, and wondering if it too was as sparse and devoid of personal effects as the living room, she slowed her steps as she approached it. Should she or shouldn’t she? Surely just a quick peek couldn’t hurt, could it?

  From the doorway, Charlotte frowned as she gazed around the small room. Compared to the bedroom, the living room was cluttered, she thought, eying the even more barren, depressive room.

  Like the living room, the bedroom was neat and tidy, but that was the only positive thing she could say about it.

  The double-sized bed was covered with a plain cotton bedspread that had probably once been white, but now, due to either age or neglect, it had a yellowish cast to it. A little bleach and a good washing would do wonders for it, make it look almost new. Too bad she couldn’t suggest it.

  Next to the bed was a cheap, rickety-looking table, just large enough to hold an equally cheap-looking lamp and an alarm clock. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small dresser, located against the wall at the foot of the bed. Except for one lone framed photograph, the dresser top was completely bare.

  From where she was standing and because of the angle of the frame, she couldn’t see the photo. Again, she had to ask herself, should she or shouldn’t she?

  Knowledge is power if you know it about the right person. And right now, she needed to know all she could about Sam.

  Charlotte could faintly hear the sound of an ice tray being emptied, and with one ear tuned to the noises in the kitchen, she eased farther inside the bedroom. As she approached the dresser, out of the corner of her eye, she saw several packing boxes. Because the boxes were stacked on the floor along the wall that the bedroom shared with the hallway, they hadn’t been visible before. But it was the photo on the dresser, not the boxes, that interested her at the moment.

  The photo was a family portrait of a man, a woman, and two little boys. From the style of the clothes they were wearing, she figured the photo was at least twenty years old. But as she examined each family member, her gaze kept returning to the man.

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She’d seen him before…somewhere. But where?

  Despite the fact that the man in the photo was twenty years younger and that he was trim, clean-shaven, and had dark hair, logic dictated that the man had to be Sam, and that the woman and boys had to be his family. Even so, the vast differences between the appearance of the man in the photo and the man she knew as Sam weren’t what made her question the logic of the two being the same person. Age and looks could easily alter the appearance of a person. Impossible as it seemed, what made her question the logic of the two men being the same was that she was sure she’d seen the man in the picture somewhere before, seen him looking exactly the way he appeared in the photograph. But where? And when?

  Suddenly conscious of the time that had passed, Charlotte turned to leave. But as she p
assed the row of packing boxes, the one nearest the door caught her attention. It was packed with what looked like a lot of books, but what caught her eye was the framed certificate lying faceup on top of the stack.

  Charlotte bent closer. Just as she’d thought, the certificate was a university degree, a degree from Tulane University made out to someone named Arthur Samuel. So who the devil was Arthur Samuel? The name was familiar, though she hadn’t the foggiest why at the moment. But more to the point, why would Sam have someone else’s degree?

  Time…hurry…

  Charlotte quickly made use of the bathroom facilities, and by the time she returned to the living room, Sam was waiting for her.

  He stood up when she entered the room. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in,” he teased. “Either that or had a heart attack and croaked on my bathroom floor. But what I was really hoping for was that you decided to give me a freebie and clean it.”

  Charlotte didn’t really appreciate his brand of humor, and just the thought of the filthy bathroom made her shudder. Unlike the other two rooms in the house, the bathroom was really gross. The shower was caked over with soap scum and body hair, the sink was smeared with toothpaste, and the inside of the toilet bowl was the stuff nightmares were made of.

  “As you can see,” she retorted, “I didn’t fall in or die of a heart attack.”

  “Guess you didn’t clean the bathroom either, huh?”

  Charlotte grimaced, but chose to ignore his comment. “Now, about B.J.”