Death Tidies Up

by Barbara Colley

  Sam shrugged and motioned toward the lone chair in the room. “Well, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk?”

  Once they were both seated, Charlotte began by explaining about finding the box beneath B.J.’s bed, and she ended with what B.J. had revealed after she’d tracked him down at school.

  “So you see,” she said. “For his own good, B.J. really needs to go to the police and tell them what happened, what he saw. And I was hoping that I could persuade you to talk to him, to convince him that’s the best thing to do.”

  For several long moments, Sam stared at her, but nothing about the expression on his face gave her a clue as to what he was thinking.

  Then, abruptly, he stood. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, he walked over to the window and gazed out into the front yard.

  “B.J.’s a good kid,” he finally said. “Just mixed up. I should have encouraged him from the beginning to go to the police. Guess I didn’t because I know how brutal the police can be, especially with a boy like B.J. who’s been in so much trouble lately.”

  He turned to face her. “But I see your point, and I will talk to him.”

  Relief washed through Charlotte, and since she’d accomplished what she’d set out to accomplish, she stood, indicating she was ready to leave. “I appreciate it and it’s the right thing to do. When he’s ready to tell the police his story, let me know. My niece is a police detective, and contrary to your opinion of the police, she isn’t the brutal type. I’ll make sure she’s the one he talks to.”

  Though Charlotte was relieved that Sam had agreed to talk to B.J. and she was confident that the teenager would listen to his friend and do the right thing, it wasn’t B.J. that filled her thoughts on the drive home.

  For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she found herself preoccupied with what she’d discovered in Sam’s bedroom…the family portrait…the Tulane University degree…the strange name on the degree…

  But why? Why did those things bother her, but more to the point, except for Sam’s influence on B.J., why should she even care about anything to do with Sam Roberts or his bedroom?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On Tuesday morning, Charlotte felt grumpy and out of sorts as she drove to Bitsy Duhe’s house. Not only had she slept badly, but she’d made the mistake of letting Sweety Boy out of his cage while she showered and dressed. She’d almost finished her shower when the silly parakeet had scared the daylights out of her by dive-bombing straight into the shower spray. The force of the spray had knocked him against the shower door, stunning the little bird senseless. He’d finally revived, but she was still worried about leaving him.

  To make matters worse, traffic was moving slowly, and when she turned onto Magazine Street, it came to a complete standstill. Even now, as she parked in front of Bitsy’s house, she still hadn’t figured out what the holdup had been.

  Most days when Charlotte cleaned Bitsy’s house, the old lady was waiting for her at the door. The fact that Bitsy wasn’t waiting didn’t concern Charlotte at first. But when she rang the doorbell and no one answered, she began to worry. Bitsy had seemed fine at the party Saturday night, but a lot could happen to an elderly lady living alone in two days. What if she’d fallen and broken a hip, or worse, what if she’d had a heart attack and died in her sleep?

  Charlotte decided to knock instead of ringing the bell again, just in case the bell was on the blink. She rapped loudly. “Miss Bitsy, it’s Charlotte. Are you in there?”

  Several more agonizing minutes passed; then, though faintly, Charlotte detected a noise on the other side of the door. When she recognized the sound of the security chain being unlatched, relief washed through her. When the door finally opened, her short-lived relief vanished.

  “Oh, Miss Bitsy. What on earth?”

  For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the elderly lady had always taken pride in her appearance and was always dressed, complete with makeup, by the crack of dawn each morning. The fact that she was still in her gown and robe would have been disturbing enough, but Charlotte could never recall seeing her look so pale and drawn.

  With the limp wave of a hand, Bitsy dismissed Charlotte’s concern. “Just a bit under the weather this morning.” Her normally shrill voice was barely more than a breathless whisper and sounded far too weak to Charlotte’s ears. “Probably just a cold,” Bitsy continued. “Thanks to that awful Mrs. Jenkins. She sat behind me in church on Sunday, and if that woman sneezed once, she must have sneezed a hundred times during the service.”

  Charlotte stepped through the doorway and placed an arm around the old lady’s waist. “Well, here, let’s get you back inside, out of the draft.” She nudged her back into the foyer, away from the door. “Judith told me there’s a lot of flu going around right now.” She released her hold long enough to close and lock the front door. “Did you have your flu shot yet?”

  Bitsy looked at her with soulful eyes. “I kept meaning to, but what with Jenny’s visit and everything, I just never got around to it.”

  Charlotte set down her supply carrier. “Well, first things first. Let’s get you back to bed, then I’ll call and see if we can get you an appointment with your doctor.”

  Bitsy shook her head. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m really not up to driving to the doctor’s office and then having to sit there all morning.”

  Charlotte gently ushered the old lady back toward her bedroom. “Don’t worry about that for now. Just leave it to me, okay?”

  When Bitsy finally nodded, Charlotte smiled. “Now, off to bed with you.”

  Once she’d made sure that Bitsy was tucked back into bed, she asked, “Have you had anything to eat this morning?”

  Bitsy had already closed her eyes. “Nothing yet,” she mumbled. “Not hungry.”

  “Well, you just rest for right now, and in a few minutes, I’ll bring you in a nice bowl of oatmeal and some juice.”

  It was midmorning before Charlotte was finally able to speak with Bitsy’s doctor. Other than a prescription for a medication that would make her rest a bit more comfortably, he told her that essentially all that could be done was have Bitsy drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.

  After determining which pharmacy Bitsy used, Charlotte left only long enough to pick up the prescription the doctor had called in. Once the old lady was resting more easily, she continued the chore of cleaning the house. But while she cleaned and alternately checked on Bitsy, Charlotte worried. In her opinion the old lady was much too ill to be left all alone.

  It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte came to a decision. Whether Bitsy liked it or not, Charlotte decided that she would insist that Bitsy call her son or one of her granddaughters. She was sure they’d want to know and take steps to make sure the old lady was cared for.

  Bitsy didn’t like it.

  “There’s no use in calling Bradley,” the elderly lady argued. “He’d just worry and there’s nothing he can do anyway. I’ll be just fine.”

  “If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte argued back. “As his mother, you would want to know if he was ill, wouldn’t you?”

  Bitsy nodded slowly.

  “Well, why wouldn’t he want to know that you’re ill?”

  “That’s different,” Bitsy quickly retorted.

  “If you don’t call him, I will,” Charlotte repeated.

  “You don’t understand, Charlotte. If Bradley thinks I can’t take care of myself, he might try to force me to move out to California or even put me in one of those awful homes for old people.”

  Sudden tears sprang into the old lady’s eyes, and Charlotte wanted to cry herself. “Oh, no, Miss Bitsy. He wouldn’t do that, not just because you’re temporarily sick.” But even as she spoke the words, she knew that the old lady was probably right. That was exactly what her own son might do in a similar situation. Why, he was already nagging her to retire, wasn’t he? Retire and let him take care of her. And she wasn’t nearly as old as Bitsy.

  More tears ran down
the old lady’s wrinkled cheeks. “Please don’t call him, Charlotte. Please,” she whispered.

  Feeling more ashamed of herself with each passing moment for upsetting the old lady, Charlotte rushed over to Bitsy, and placing her arm around her shoulders, she gently hugged her. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all upset. I’m just worried about leaving you here by yourself with you being so sick. Please don’t cry.”

  After a moment, Bitsy sniffed, then nodded. “I’m okay.” Then with a spunk that Charlotte had to admire, she pulled away from Charlotte and said in a shaky voice, “Tell you what. There’s an agency that provides nursing care for us old folks at home, if we need it. I think they call themselves the Special Care Agency. If you promise not to call Bradley, I promise to call Special Care and see if they can send someone out for a couple of days.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I think that’s a perfect solution. And again, I apologize. It’s just that I care about you and was worried about leaving you.”

  The agency Bitsy called phoned back after lunch to inform Bitsy that yes, they could send someone out right away. Even though Charlotte had almost finished cleaning the elderly lady’s house, she decided that she would wait around until the nurse arrived, just to make sure whoever the agency sent was suitable.

  She had just put away the last of the dishes from the dishwasher when, out of the clear blue, like the flash of a light-bulb in a dark room, she remembered where she’d heard the name Arthur Samuel before.

  Arthur Samuel was the professor Bitsy had told her about, the one who had been convicted of vehicular homicide so many years ago. Bitsy had even showed her a picture of him in her granddaughter’s yearbook.

  Hoping against hope that Bitsy hadn’t got around to mailing the yearbook back to her granddaughter yet, Charlotte hurried into the living room.

  The moment she entered the room she spied the book still lying on the table in front of the sofa, just where Bitsy had left it a week ago. Charlotte picked up the book, and seating herself on the sofa, she quickly thumbed through the pages until she found the particular picture she was searching for.

  At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, but the more she stared at the man in the picture, the more she became convinced that Arthur Samuel, a former professor of chemistry at Tulane University, and Sam Roberts, the scruffy handyman, were one and the same person.

  Charlotte was still staring at the picture when the doorbell chimed. “Probably the nurse,” she murmured.

  Closing the yearbook, she stood and placed the book back on top of the table. But as she rushed off toward the foyer, a myriad of questions whirled through her mind.

  Was Sam Roberts really Professor Arthur Samuel? They could be brothers instead, or even distant cousins, which would account for the remarkable resemblance. Still, if Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel were the same person, it made sense that the professor would have changed his name because of his past. His looks would have changed too. After all, he was twenty years older now. But why on earth would he want to return to New Orleans in the first place?

  …she divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Kansas where she was from. If what Bitsy had said was true, why wouldn’t he have moved to Kansas to be closer to his children?

  Charlotte shook her head and unlatched the security chain at the front door. Lots of reasons, she decided. His children would be grown now and might not even live in Kansas. Besides, why would he want to live near his ex-wife? She was probably married again with a completely different life.

  When Charlotte opened the door and saw the person standing on the other side, she was suddenly struck speechless. All she could do was stare up at the towering giant of man.

  “Hi, there. I’m René with the Special Care Agency.”

  Despite his size, he wasn’t fat. Just huge. He was probably in his early thirties, she figured, and though he was dressed in typical nurse scrubs, he didn’t look like any nurse she’d ever seen. His wealth of dark hair was long, but he’d pulled it back and secured it with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. On the lobe of one ear a small diamond stud twinkled back at her, and lodged in the side of his nose was a tiny gold hoop.

  Charlotte swallowed hard. “May I see some identification please?” she finally asked.

  “Sure thing.” With a quick and easy grin that showed a row of even white teeth, he pulled out a billfold and produced a picture I.D. card. The card, emblazoned with the Special Care Agency logo, identified him as René Lewis, RN.

  Satisfied, but still a bit leery, Charlotte nodded, then motioned for him to come inside.

  “So where’s Miss Bitsy?” he asked, glancing around.

  Charlotte closed the door, but something about the way he’d asked about Bitsy gave her pause. “She’s in bed. Do you know Mrs. Duhe?”

  Again he produced that easy grin. “Oh, sure. She and I are old friends, and I have to tell you, I jumped at the chance to take care of her. She’s a real sweetheart and such a feisty little thing to boot.”

  Though Charlotte still wasn’t completely comfortable with the young man, she couldn’t easily ignore the obvious respect and affection in his voice.

  Any doubts she might have had disappeared the moment Bitsy saw René walk into the room.

  “Oh, René,” she cried. “I thought that’s who I heard.” Her pale, faded face absolutely beamed with delight.

  René grinned. “Now, what’s all this about, young lady? What on earth is my best girl doing all laid up in the bed sick?”

  A gentle giant, Charlotte decided as she watched René bend over and plant a kiss on the top of Bitsy’s head.

  “Let’s get some vital signs on you, sweetheart,” he told Bitsy. “Then you can tell me what sort of mischief you’ve been up to lately.”

  By the time Charlotte was ready to leave, she was more than confident that Bitsy would be well taken care of. But just in case the old lady took a turn for the worse, Charlotte left her own name and phone number with René.

  Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The old adage was so true, Charlotte decided as she pulled away from the curb in front of Bitsy’s house. But did the same principle apply to Sam Roberts? Was she misjudging him without really looking beneath the surface?

  “Only one way to find out,” she murmured. And she knew just the person to ask.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  As soon as she got home, Charlotte slipped off her shoes and pulled on her moccasins. She immediately headed for the telephone, then abruptly stopped and did an about-face.

  “First things first,” she murmured, eyeing Sweety Boy’s cage. “Hey, there, Boy.” She approached the little bird’s cage. “You took quite a spill this morning.” She poked her forefinger through the wires to gently stroke his head. “Guess that’ll teach you that little birds don’t belong in big, bad showers, huh? You feeling better? Huh, fellow? You look a bit perkier.”

  Though the little bird rubbed against her finger and seemed alert enough, the fact that he’d yet to utter a sound since she’d come through the door was worrisome.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me? Say, ‘Missed you, Charlotte. Missed you.’”

  The little bird continued staring at her but remained silent. Not even a tiny chirp.

  After weighing the pros and cons of letting him out of the cage, she decided that maybe it would be best for the remainder of the day if she continued to keep him confined, just until she was sure that he had fully recovered.

  Had the shower incident traumatized him more than she’d thought? With a deep frown of concern and one last glance at him, she finally turned away and walked over to her desk. If he still wasn’t talking by tomorrow, she supposed she’d have to consider taking him in to the vet.

  At her desk, Charlotte flipped through her Rolodex until she found the name and phone number she was looking for; then she placed her call.

  Mary Johnson was the daughter of a couple whom Charlotte had once worked for over the perio
d of several years. But Mary just happened to be a managing editor for the Times-Picayune as well. If anyone knew where she could get more information on Professor Arthur Samuel, Charlotte figured that Mary would know.

  When Mary answered the call on the fourth ring, Charlotte sat down at the desk and reached for a pen and notepad.

  “Hi, Mary. This is Charlotte LaRue.”

  “Oh, hey there, Charlotte. It’s good to hear from you.” Then she laughed. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling to complain about another one of our reporters. And speaking of that particular rude and pesky man, you’ll be happy to know that he’s gone—moved to Houston last I heard.”

  “No, hon, I’m not calling to complain. But I can’t say I’m sorry that awful man moved on.” Charlotte shuddered, remembering how the freelance reporter had tried to chase her down after he’d found out that she worked for the Dubuissons. “So how are your folks? Still enjoying their retirement?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Mary told her. “What with me working all hours here at the paper and them traveling all over the country, I hardly ever see them anymore.”

  “So what happened to the flea marketing and junk sales hobby they were into?”

  “Well, to quote Dad, ‘It got to be too much like work.’”

  Charlotte laughed. “Sounds like something he would say—but listen, I don’t want to interfere with your work, but I was hoping you could help me out with something.”

  “Now, Charlotte, you know I will if I can. So—what’s up?”

  Charlotte rolled the pen between her fingers. “I need to track down some background information on a man—something that happened, hmm—probably a good twenty years ago. This particular incident would have been written up in the newspaper.”

  After several moments of silence, Mary answered. “Twenty years is a long time, certainly before I hired on. I’d say your best bet would be the public library. They keep stuff like past issues of newspapers on microfilm, but you need to narrow it down to a particular month or else you’ll end up wasting a whole lot of time searching through old issues.”