The woman was convinced that she was Marian, and though Charlotte wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her she had the wrong person, every instinct she had warned against it.
Charlotte swallowed hard, and praying that Marian had overheard the woman ranting and raving and wasn’t too far gone to have sense enough to call the police, she decided that the only way to stay alive was to play along…or play dumb.
Gathering every ounce of courage she had within her, she decided to play dumb. She slowly shook her head. “There’s been a mistake of some kind. I don’t know any Drew, and I don’t know what or who you’re talking—”
“Liar!” the woman screamed. “You’re a damned liar. This is the right address, and you’re Marian Hebert! I know ’cause Drew told me all about your fancy house in the uppity Garden District. And I know all about you and what y’all did—you and Drew and that husband of yours—how you all got drunk as skunks that night and stole that professor’s car, and how you were the one driving.”
He’s found out…somehow he’s found out.
If Charlotte hadn’t already been scared speechless, she would have been shocked speechless as well, and if she’d had any doubts about Sam Roberts and Arthur Samuel being the same man, those doubts had been put to rest, once and for all.
Even as Darla continued ranting, everything she’d said began to make a weird kind of sense. They were all connected: Drew, Bill, Marian, and Sam aka Professor Arthur Samuel. And if what Darla was saying was true, then it was no wonder that Marian suffered from emotional problems, along with alcohol abuse, and it was no wonder that Sam had changed his name and attempted to change his looks. Sam didn’t want to be recognized.
If Marian, Drew, and Bill had stolen the professor’s car that night, then they had let an innocent man pay for their crime. Even worse, though, somehow, some way, Sam had figured out that the three had stolen his car and that one of them had been responsible for the murder he’d been accused of.
A cold chill ran through Charlotte. Two of the three, Bill and Drew, were dead.
Sam had worked for Bill, and Bill had been killed in a suspicious explosion.
Then there was Drew. Charlotte had no doubt that Sam had also killed Drew as well…the cigar butt outside the closet, just like the one at Sam’s house, and just like the one she’d seen outside the closet at the Devilier house…the purple Mardi Gras mask on Drew’s face. Purple, green, and gold, all traditional Mardi Gras colors: purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power. Sam Roberts aka Professor Arthur Samuel was out for justice, and in his own macabre way, he was letting the world know that he was finally getting it.
But how? How had Sam even known that Drew was still alive to begin with? He must have, though, and now, out of the three, only Marian was left.
Darla suddenly poked Charlotte hard with the gun. “You did it. You were the one who killed that man, and you let that professor take the rap.” Her breath was coming in short gasps. Then an evil looking smile pulled her lips into a parody of the emotion, and she whispered loudly, “And I know something else too. I know exactly how much you were paying Drew to keep his mouth shut, so don’t go trying to weasel out of it. But now you can pay me instead. Last I heard, there’s no statue of limitation on murder, so if you don’t pay, I’ll go to the cops.”
Call her bluff. It was a desperate ploy, one that could easily push the woman over the edge, but Charlotte figured she didn’t have a lot of choices. In what she hoped looked like a defiant gesture, she lifted her chin and glared down her nose at the woman. “I think that’s the best idea yet,” she told her. “Go ahead. Go to the cops. Better yet, use my phone and call them right now.”
For what seemed like an eternity, the woman stared at Charlotte. Then sudden anger flashed in her eyes and her face turned beet red. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice harsh and chilling. “You think you’re so smart, but I’ve got news for you. I’m smarter. Those two brats of yours are due home any minute now, aren’t they? Either give me the money or I’ll kill them both.” She leaned closer to Charlotte’s face, then screamed, “I mean it! I’ll kill the little brats, so give it to me now!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught a glimpse of movement from the front porch through the side window. The boys! Were they home already?
“Okay, okay!” Charlotte threw up her hands and tried desperately to think of some way to distract the dangerous woman. Time. She needed to buy time. Praying that Marian would hear her and keep the boys out of the house, she raised the pitch of her voice. “I’ll get you your money!” she told her. “Anything—but please don’t hurt my boys.” She motioned toward the end of the hallway. “I keep money in my office back there.”
Darla poked Charlotte with the gun. “That’s much better. Now let’s go get it. Turn around—” Charlotte turned. “Slowly now,” the woman warned. “And you’d better not try anything.”
All the way down the hallway, Charlotte felt the pressure of the gun in the small of her back as she forced her trembling legs to move toward Marian’s office.
Once inside the room, Charlotte motioned toward the desk. “The money’s in the desk.”
When they reached the desk, Darla snapped at her, “Get it, but you’d better not try anything.”
“H-how much do you want?” Charlotte asked as she eased slowly to the other side of the desk.
“All of it,” Darla snapped. “I want all that you’ve got.”
Now what? Not knowing what else to do, Charlotte leaned down, pulled open a drawer, and began riffling through it. Since Darla was on the other side, Charlotte was pretty sure she couldn’t see what she was doing. The drawer she’d pulled out was full of folders that contained what looked like invoices. But there was also a box of envelopes as well. She pulled out an envelope, and in hopes of making it look as if it were full of money, she began slowly stuffing it with the invoices. What she needed was to buy time.
She had almost stuffed it full when she suddenly noticed that her supply carrier was within reach. As she eyed the contents of the carrier, an idea began to slowly take shape. Could she do it? Did she have enough courage to even try?
Charlotte had noticed that Darla was nervous and kept glancing around the room, especially toward the doorway. Still pretending to stuff the envelope with money, out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte watched and waited, hoping for just the right opportunity. The moment Darla glanced away, she grabbed one of the spray bottles that she was sure contained ammonia.
With her finger on the trigger, she hid the bottle behind her back. Holding out the envelope in her other hand, she sent up a short prayer for courage, then slowly stood. She thrust the envelope toward Darla. “Here’s your money,” she told her. “Take it and get out.”
Just as Charlotte had hoped, Darla had eyes only for the envelope. And just as she’d hoped, the greedy woman had to lean across the desk to get it. Leaning across the desk would throw her a bit off balance. The second she leaned forward, Charlotte whipped the bottle of ammonia from behind her back, aimed it directly at Darla’s eyes, and pumped the trigger.
Ammonia spewed out, coating Darla’s face. Darla screamed, dropped the gun, and began clawing at her eyes. The gun fell with a heavy thud on top of the desk.
Charlotte dropped the ammonia bottle, and keeping a wary eye on Darla, she immediately scooped up the gun. Once she had it, she ran for the door.
The sound of police car sirens reached her ears, and Charlotte sprinted down the hallway toward the foyer. The moment she jerked open the front door, she froze.
For the second time in the course of an hour, she found herself facing the wrong end of a gun.
Two policemen were already on the porch, their guns drawn, and more were spilling out of patrol cars.
“Put it down, lady,” the taller of the two policemen shouted. “Put the gun down now!”
“Okay, okay!” she shouted back. “See—” She bent down and placed the gun on the porch. “I’m putti
ng it down.”
“Easy, lady. Now kick it this way.”
“Gladly,” she muttered, as she kicked the gun toward the two policemen.
The moment the gun slid away, the shorter policeman approached her. “Hands above your head.”
“Officer, if you’d just let me explain—”
“Do it, lady! Hands above your head.”
Charlotte raised her hands. “Please, sir, I’m just the maid. My name is Charlotte LaRue and my niece is Detective Judith Monroe. The woman you want is inside, and that’s her gun.”
“Hey, Joe,” a familiar voice shouted. “She’s telling the truth. She’s okay.”
Charlotte sent up a prayer of thanks as Billy Wilson bounded up the steps. “Oh, Billy, am I ever glad to see you.”
After Charlotte gave an abbreviated version of what had happened, Billy sent two of the other officers inside the house after Darla Shaw.
Within minutes, Darla was in custody and an ambulance had been called to transport her to the nearest hospital.
With Darla subdued, Charlotte explained that her employer was still inside the house somewhere. Accompanied by Billy, she went back inside to look for Marian.
“That ammonia trick was some smart thinking on your part, Ms. LaRue,” Billy told her at the doorway to the kitchen. “That took a lot of guts. Just one thing, though. It sure seems strange how you’re always around when this stuff happens.”
Charlotte shuddered. “Not my choice, I assure you. Just lucky, I guess,” she mumbled sarcastically. “Seriously though, I am lucky that you were here and vouched for me…again. Thanks, Billy.”
Billy shrugged. “No big deal.”
When they entered the kitchen, it was empty. Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t understand where she could be. I—”
Billy heard the noise at the same time that Charlotte heard it. He pointed to the pantry, and Charlotte nodded.
“Marian, it’s Charlotte.” She walked to the pantry. “You can come out now. The police are here.” She opened the door, and her face fell. “Oh, Marian…”
The pantry was the walk-in type, but there was barely room to turn around inside. Marian was scrunched up, sitting on the floor, her whole body shaking. In one hand was a butcher knife, and in the other hand she was clutching an empty liquor bottle.
She glanced up at Charlotte. “Oh, Ch-Charlotte! I—I was s-so scared.” When she stumbled to her feet, the knife and bottle clattered to the floor, and Charlotte had to grab her to keep her from falling. “Is—is she gone?” she stammered, her words slurred. “Is that awful woman gone?” Her breath reeked of liquor and Charlotte frowned.
“Not yet,” Charlotte told her. “But it’s safe. The police have her now.”
Marian was deathly pale and continued to shake. “I don’t feel so good.” Then she suddenly groaned. “Oh, noooo—I—I think I—I’m going to be sick.” She crossed her arms, hugging her stomach, and doubled over.
“Okay, okay—just hold on!” Charlotte told her.
“Here, let me help you,” Billy offered.
Between them, they got her to the bathroom just in time before Marian threw up. Knowing how embarrassed Marian would be later, Charlotte assured Billy that she could handle things, then shooed him out of the bathroom. Once she’d firmly shut the door, she wet a washcloth and wrung it out, then waited. When it seemed that nothing else could possibly come out of the poor woman, Charlotte flushed the toilet, then kneeled down beside Marian and began blotting her forehead with the wet washcloth.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” she whispered, still pale and shaky a few minutes later. “I—I was so scared and I just couldn’t seem to stop drinking, especially after I heard what that woman said.” She stared at Charlotte with miserable eyes. “I—I guess I owe you an explanation.”
Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Marian, but I’m afraid the police are going to have a lot of questions. And—I have to confess—I am curious. But I’m more concerned than curious. About you,” she added, “and about B.J.”
Marian suddenly grabbed Charlotte by the arm. “Please, Charlotte—please don’t tell them all that stuff that woman said.”
Charlotte covered Marian’s hand with her own. “I’m not the one you have to worry about. Who you have to worry about is Darla Shaw and what she tells them.”
“Well, she can tell them anything she damn well pleases, but it’s not true—not about me driving the professor’s car that night. Oh, I thought it was. For almost twenty years I thought it was my fault—that I was the one driving when that poor man was killed.” She shook her head. “We were all so drunk that night, but I was the worst of the lot. I was so spaced out that I don’t even remember what happened. But one thing I know now—it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t steal the professor’s car, and I swear to you, I didn’t run over that man. I wasn’t the one who was driving that night. I didn’t kill him.”
Given Marian’s inebriated state, Charlotte decided that she was telling the truth. And because she was a bit less inhibited than she might have been sober, Charlotte pressed her advantage. “And what about Drew Bergeron?” she asked softly. “Did you kill him?”
“I wish I had. I’ve wished it a thousand times. If anybody had reason to”—She thumped herself on the chest—“it was me. For the past two years, ever since his so-called first death, Drew’s been soaking me dry—blackmailing me. And this whole mess—everything—is all his fault. His and Bill’s,” she murmured, casting her eyes downward to stare at the floor.
After a moment, she sighed. “Poor Bill. He was so angry when he found out. It was only then that he finally told me the truth, only after he realized that Drew was still alive and had been blackmailing me. That was the day before Bill—before he died.”
Her expression grew hard. “You see,” she said bitterly, “it was Drew all along. Drew was the one driving that night, and he’d persuaded Bill to let me think that I’d been at the wheel. Then they both persuaded me to let the professor take the blame.”
Charlotte frowned. “All those years, your own husband let you think that you’d killed a man?”
Marian shook her head. “We weren’t married then.”
“So why didn’t he tell you later, after you were married?”
“Guilt,” she answered. “Plain and simple—he felt too guilty about everything, and by that time, things had gone too far. After the professor was convicted, I—I had a nervous breakdown and tried to—to commit suicide—too much booze and drugs, and too much of my own guilt, thinking that I had not only killed a man, but had let an innocent man go to prison.
“It was after my suicide attempt that Bill told me he hadn’t realized how much he loved me until then. But seeing me like that—” She shrugged. “He blamed himself and said that was when he decided to spend the rest of his life trying to make it all up to me.
“At that time I was a basket case, and so needy—” She shook her head. “I’d always loved Bill anyway, so it was easy just to give in and let him take over, let him take care of me. And you know how those things go. Time passes and it gets harder and harder to tell the truth.”
Unfortunately, Charlotte did know. She’d spent years living her own lie, pretending that she had married her son’s father before he left for Vietnam when she hadn’t. Only after Hank was almost a grown man and had begun asking questions had she found the courage to tell him the truth.
Marian sighed. “Once Bill told me the truth, I was furious—so angry, so hurt, and—” She swallowed hard. “All those years—” She bowed her head and rubbed her forehead. “Anyway—” She dropped her hand and raised her head. “We had a huge fight—lots of yelling and screaming—and I threatened to take the boys and leave him, divorce him. Then, the next day—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “The next day he was gone—killed in that explosion.
“Oh, Charlotte—” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was all my fault. In spite of his lies and deceptions, Bill really loved me
and the boys. We were his world, and when he thought I was taking them away, he—” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed softly.
Several moments passed before Marian spoke again. “I didn’t kill Drew,” she finally whispered. “But he deserved to die.”
Though Charlotte was relieved and satisfied that Marian was telling the truth, she had still needed to ask, had still needed to hear Marian deny it.
“Marian—” She reached up and squeezed Marian’s shoulder. “About your husband. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe that he killed himself. In fact, I don’t think his death was an accident either. I’m convinced that Mr. Hebert was murdered. I’m also convinced that you need to tell the police exactly what you’ve just told me.”
Marian suddenly jerked away. “No!” Her eyes were wild with panic as she glared at Charlotte. “Don’t you see? If I tell the police, they’re going to think I killed Drew. Then, who’s going to take care of my boys?” She shook her head. “No way—and if you tell them, I’ll deny it—deny it all.”
“Whoa—just calm down,” Charlotte soothed. “In the first place, I’m not telling anybody anything. But just listen to me for a minute. If I’m right, Sam Roberts is really Professor Arthur Samuel, and he’s seeking retribution and revenge for his life being ruined. He wants justice.
“I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he found out about that night. Somehow he found out that the three of you stole his car and killed that pedestrian, then set him up to take the blame. He’s already murdered Drew, and I believe he also murdered Mr. Hebert. Two out of the three of you are dead….” Charlotte’s voice trailed away, and she gave Marian a moment to mull over what she’d said.
Then, softly, she continued. “Don’t you get it? If you don’t go to the police, he’ll eventually kill you too, just like he killed Mr. Bergeron and your husband.”
Marian’s face was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions, and Charlotte pressed her advantage. “One other thing you need to consider. Sam has already befriended B.J. and Aaron. They both trust him. What if he decides to take his revenge out on them?”
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