Maid for Murder

by Barbara Colley

  Her frown deepened. The gardener came on Tuesdays, and the police didn’t finish their investigation until late Tuesday, too late for the gardener to come.

  So who had tracked up the porch this time?

  Then it dawned on her, and she chuckled. The police. Yes, of course, she thought as she resumed sweeping. The police were probably all over the place, looking for clues, so of course they were the ones who had tracked it up this time.

  But as she turned the corner of the porch and the cast-iron bistro set came into view, she slowed to a standstill again. One of the chairs had been moved closer to the double French doors, in almost the same exact position that she’d found it in on Friday. Once again Charlotte envisioned someone sitting in the chair, someone watching, or listening to, the goings-on inside the library.

  Someone listening ... watching ... waiting ...

  Charlotte shivered. Could she have been mistaken about the gardener, after all? Could that someone have been Jackson’s murderer instead, casing the place?

  Chapter Eleven

  The slamming of a car door drew Charlotte’s attention away from the chair, distracting her for the moment. Surely that wasn’t the police coming back again, she thought as she hurried back around to the front gallery to investigate. But if it was, then maybe she should tell them about the chair and her suspicions.

  Then a vision of the pushy reporter she’d encountered earlier popped into her head. She wouldn’t put it past him to have come back with a whole camera crew in tow.

  Charlotte turned the corner of the gallery just in time to see Anna-Maria walk around the front end of a black sporty Jaguar. Charlotte backed up a step and watched as a dark-haired man climbed out from the driver’s side and slammed the door. He was dressed in a royal blue polo shirt, tucked neatly into light tan chinos, and all Charlotte could do was stare. She’d never seen a man with such perfect features, features that bordered on being almost too beautiful to belong to a man.

  Though Charlotte had never met Anna-Maria’s fiancé, she assumed that the strikingly handsome young man had to be James Doucet. Her assumption was confirmed when he caught Anna-Maria by the hand and pulled her into his arms for a long, slow kiss. Charlotte’s throat tightened. The kiss was obviously so full of tenderness and love that it almost brought tears to her eyes.

  But that was good, she thought, good that Anna-Maria’s fiancé wasn’t afraid to show how much he cared for her. Would it be enough, though? If what Clarice had said was true, if Brian O’Connor was Anna-Maria’s birth father instead of Jackson and the truth ever came out, Anna-Maria was going to need all the loving support she could get to make it through such a traumatizing revelation.

  For Anna-Maria’s sake, Charlotte could only hope that James Doucet truly loved her with the kind of love that would be strong enough to weather the turbulent storm that was brewing on the horizon.

  The young couple were obviously so caught up in the moment that neither seemed to notice they were being observed. But what if they did catch her watching them?

  She knew she shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all, they were out on the street in plain sight for anyone to see, for Pete’s sake ... anyone, including that awful reporter.

  Charlotte shuddered. A newspaper reporter was one thing, but what if the couple got the idea that she was spying on them? Just the thought made her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she quickly eased back around the corner to the side porch.

  She took her time sweeping away the remaining debris as she listened for some indication that the couple had finished with their good-byes. Then, suddenly, the roar of a lawn mower coming from the property next door intruded, drowning out all other noises.

  With a frown of irritation, Charlotte automatically turned toward the source of the noise. At that moment, she caught a glimpse of a man pushing a lawn mower on the other side of the tall hedge of ligustrum that bordered the cast-iron fence separating the properties.

  Charlotte recognized the man right away as Joseph O‘Connor, the gardener that Bitsy Duhe used. Was Brian O’Connor helping his father today? she wondered. She shaded her eyes with her hand against the afternoon glare and tried to see in between the breaks in the hedge.

  As if the very thought of the man had conjured him up, he suddenly appeared just above the hedge. At first glance, he looked as if he were suspended in midair, floating along the top of the tall hedge. Then Charlotte saw that he was standing on a ladder and in his hands was a piece of equipment she recognized as a gas hedge trimmer.

  But Brian O’Connor’s attention wasn’t on trimming the hedge. Instead, his gaze seemed riveted on the street in front of the Dubuissons’ house.

  Anna-Maria and James, Charlotte suddenly realized. Brian O’Connor was watching Anna-Maria and James say their good-byes.

  Seeing Brian once again reminded her of what Clarice had said earlier. Was it true? Was Brian O‘Connor Anna-Maria’s birth father? Why would the old woman say such a thing if it wasn’t true? And if Brian O’Connor was the young woman’s birth father, did he know that he was? she wondered.

  Abruptly, the noisy lawn mower sputtered, then died. At that moment, a movement on the street caught her eye, and Charlotte recognized the black Jag driving slowly away.

  But Brian O‘Connor’s gaze was still zeroed in on the front of the Dubuissons’ house, his head slowly turning, as if watching the progress of someone. He was watching Anna-Maria.

  The sound of the Dubuissons’ front door opening and closing reached Charlotte’s ears. Only then did Brian O’Connor look away to focus on the piece of machinery in his hands. For long seconds he simply stared at it. Even with the distance between them, Charlotte could see that his expression was tight with strain, as if he were fighting some demon from within.

  Then, in an abrupt, almost angry motion, he yanked on the starter cord of the hedge trimmer. One pull was enough, and the piece of machinery came to life with a high-pitched whine.

  He knew, thought Charlotte as she watched him crop off the uneven growth of the hedge with swift, precise strokes. Why else would he have been watching Anna Maria so intently?

  Sneaking around down on the porch ... think’n nobody knows he’s down there snoop’n around, spying.

  Charlotte let out a disgusted sigh. “Why indeed?” she muttered as she shook her head. “There you go again, imagining things that just aren’t so.” And all because of an old lady’s ranting and ravings, an old lady who was probably going senile to boot.

  The truth of the matter, plain and simple, was that Anna-Maria was a beautiful young woman, the kind who would attract any man’s attention, even a man old enough to be her father.

  But even as Charlotte tried to dismiss the whole incident, she couldn’t completely forget it, not entirely. Nor could she forget the things that Clarice had told her earlier.

  Inside the house, Charlotte found Anna-Maria in the kitchen. She was pouring herself a glass of wine.

  Charlotte smiled at the young woman. “You doing okay, hon?”

  Anna-Maria held out the glass of wine as if making a toast. “Sure, I’m Okay. I’m just fine and dandy, like everyone else in this household. Another couple of glasses of this and I’ll feel even better, though.” As if to emphasize the point, she took a healthy swallow.

  The girl was hurting, hurting badly. Charlotte recognized the signs immediately, for she, too, had once been in the young woman’s shoes. She had also wished for something, anything, to take away the pain. Her smile faded.

  “Alcohol is a depressant, you know,” she told her softly, gently. “It won’t help, not in the long run.”

  For several moments, Anna-Maria simply stared at Charlotte, her expression unreadable. Then, to Charlotte’s surprise, she turned to the sink and poured the drink down the drain. “You’re right, of course,” she said, carefully placing the glass on the countertop. She faced Charlotte again. “But I—I—” Her lower lip quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t know what else to do,” sh
e whispered in a choked voice. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I—I—” She covered her face with trembling hands, and a deep sob shook her body.

  Charlotte quickly closed the gap between them and pulled the young woman into her arms. “There, there,” she murmured, gently patting her back. “I know it hurts, but it’s going to be okay,” she soothed.

  Anna-Maria buried her face against Charlotte’s shoulder and continued to sob.

  “I’m just so sorry you have to go through this,” Charlotte told her. “I lost my father, too, when I was about your age, and I know how you feel.”

  The young woman lifted her head, and with tears still streaming down her face, she stared at Charlotte. “You—you did? Your d—dad was murdered, too?”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “He wasn’t murdered. But he and my mom were both killed in an airplane crash. For years they had saved to take their dream vacation, a trip to Hawaii. Then, when they were finally able to ...” Charlotte swallowed hard to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. She could still see the face of the television reporter, still hear his voice as he told about the fatal flight going down in the Pacific.

  “They died? Both of them?”

  Again, Charlotte nodded. “Strange as it may sound, though, I’ve always drawn comfort from the fact that they were together when it happened. I like to think that’s the way they would have wanted it.”

  “Oh, Charlotte, that must have been terrible for you. It’s bad enough I’ve lost my dad, but I can’t even imagine losing my mom, too, and at the same time.”

  “You’re going to get through this,” Charlotte assured her. She squeezed the young woman’s shoulders and stepped back. “It’s going to hurt, and it won’t be easy, but you will survive. Just take one day at a time and keep looking forward, not backward. None of us can change the past, and we can’t predict the future. All we truly have is today.”

  Anna-Maria sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes, then crossed her arms, hugging them close as she nodded. “I’m trying. Really I am. But—”

  “No buts, now,” Charlotte said firmly, wagging her finger at the younger woman. “One thing in particular that helped me was keeping busy. If you can stay busy, then you don’t have a whole lot of time to dwell on things.” She offered the girl a smile. “And speaking of staying busy, there’s something you can do right now.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Your mother and grandmother are both upstairs. Your mom hasn’t been resting well, so she really needs to sleep. I’d feel a whole lot better about leaving if I knew you were keeping an eye on them for me.”

  “Do you have to go right now?”

  There was a desperate edge in the young woman’s voice, and Charlotte hesitated, torn between leaving and staying. She was tired and ready for her workday to be over, ready to kick back and relax. But she also cared about these people, truly cared about them.

  Unbidden, a conversation she’d once had with Hank suddenly came to mind. Be careful dealing with these people, Mother. Business is business, and these people you work for are part of your business. They’re clients. They’re not your friends.

  In spite of her son’s warnings, to her the Dubuissons weren’t just clients. She’d watched Anna-Maria grow up. For years she’d observed and admired Jeanne’s devotion to her mother. Charlotte loved her son with all her heart and was proud of him, but she’d often wished that she’d had a daughter, too, one just like Jeanne.

  Maybe she could stay just a little longer, after all. “Tell you what,” Charlotte told Anna-Maria, smoothing down her apron. “Why don’t I fix us a nice cup of coffee, some of that New Orleans blend with chicory that you like so well.”

  Charlotte’s hands stilled over the pocket of the apron, the slight bulge and rustling sound reminding her of the phone calls and messages she’d taken. She withdrew the messages. “I took some calls while your mother was sleeping.” She handed the slips of paper to Anna-Maria. “We can go over them while we drink our coffee. Just in case you can’t read my handwriting,” she added with a grin. “And after I’m gone, then you can take over that chore as well.”

  Anna-Maria nodded, and a tentative smile pulled at her lips. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

  She had just finished brewing the coffee when the phone rang. “Why don’t you answer it this time while I pour the coffee,” Charlotte told Anna-Maria. “There’s a notepad on the counter there if you need to take a message.”

  The younger woman only hesitated a moment, then answered the call. “Hello ... yes, she’s still here ... just a moment.” She turned to Charlotte and held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  “For me?” Charlotte rolled her eyes upward and gave an exaggerated oh, well shrug, a gesture that made Anna-Maria really smile.

  Wondering who on earth would be calling her at the Dubuissons’, she set down the coffeepot, then took the receiver. “Charlotte speaking.”

  “Ms. LaRue, this is Detective Thibodeaux with the NOPD.”

  At the sound of the detective’s deep, raspy voice, Charlotte stiffened.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he continued. “Either you can come down to the station or I can come by your house.”

  She wasn’t sure why, but just the thought of being alone inside her house with the menacing detective made Charlotte’s insides knot up. “I’ll come to the station,” she blurted out. “I can be there in about a half an hour or so.”

  Chapter Twelve

  An hour later, when Charlotte turned onto Milan Street, she immediately spotted her niece’s tan Toyota parked in front of her house.

  She’d gone to the Sixth District police station, but when she’d arrived, she’d been told that Detective Thibodeaux had been called out on another homicide. He’d left word for her that he would be in touch. And though it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop and Charlotte wondered what kind of questions he was going to ask, she was vastly relieved that she didn’t have to deal with the man right away.

  Charlotte slowed down the van at her driveway. At any other time, she would have been delighted by a midweek visit from Judith, but given the circumstances surrounding their encounter the night before at the Dubuissons’ house, not to mention the call from Judith’s partner, she felt only dread.

  The words official police business kept running through her head.

  But Charlotte had always tried to look for something positive in every situation; she supposed that she should be grateful that the car sitting in front of her home belonged to Judith and not Louis Thibodeaux.

  Charlotte pulled into her driveway and parked beneath the shed. Everyone in her family knew that Charlotte kept a spare key hidden beneath the fat ceramic frog in the flower bed near the front corner of the house. Since Judith was already inside instead of waiting on the porch, Charlotte figured she’d been there a while.

  The moment Charlotte stepped through the front door, Sweety Boy let out a series of chirps and whistles and fluttered around inside his cage, all orchestrated, she knew, to get her attention.

  “That bird is something else, Aunt Charley.”

  Judith was seated on the sofa. An open briefcase, along with several stacks of papers, were spread out around her. “I’ve been here about a half an hour, and there hasn’t been a peep out of him. He’s barely even moved off his perch, and now look at him.”

  “What can I say?” Charlotte grinned. “He knows who hands out the birdseed.”

  Ignoring the bird’s antics for the moment, Charlotte deposited her purse on the small table near the door. “I would say that this is a nice surprise,” she said as she slipped off her working loafers and stepped into a pair of soft suede moccasins she wore around the house. “But I have a feeling that this isn’t strictly a social visit. And by the way, I waited for you to call last night.”

  Judith had the grace to look sheepish for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Aunt Charley, but I did say I probably wouldn’t have time, and I didn’t get home until lat
e. I figured you were probably already asleep. You’re right, though,” she continued. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit. But Auntie, you know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t necessary. We have to question everyone who is even remotely connected to the family.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I understand. What I don’t understand is why I have to be questioned by your partner, too.”

  “You’ve seen Thibodeaux?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet, but he tracked me down at the Dubuissons’” She went on to explain about his phone call and what had happened once she’d arrived at the precinct.

  Judith looked puzzled. “I’m pretty sure he knew that I was going to talk to you,” she said.

  “Maybe because I’m your aunt he doesn’t think you can be objective enough.”

  “No, he knows better than that.” Judith paused. Then, after a moment, she shrugged. “He probably just misunderstood.”

  Though she didn’t think Judith looked quite convinced, Charlotte let it slide. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower first and change clothes,” she told her. Charlotte headed toward the bedroom. “Just give me ten minutes,” she called over her shoulder. “And there’s a fresh pitcher of tea in the refrigerator. Fix us both a glass.”

  Though Charlotte had chosen the navy uniforms and white aprons that she and her employees wore with careful consideration, there was a downside to her choice. While the cotton-knit material always looked neat and was comfortable and practical, it also absorbed odors, more specifically the odors of the cleaning chemicals they sometimes used. She’d learned early on that showering and changing the minute she got home was much more practical than risking a possible allergic reaction to the chemicals.

  While Charlotte showered, she thought about the reason for Judith’s visit, and she suspected she already knew what type of questions her niece was going to ask. Since she worked for the Dubuissons, it was only logical that her niece was going to ask her about the family and their relationships with each other.