They were probably all at the funeral, hovering around the church like a flock of vultures, just waiting to pick up some juicy tidbit to exploit.
Thankful that she could finally park in her usual spot, Charlotte pulled the van over to the curb near the corner. When she climbed out of the vehicle, an old battered truck pulled alongside the curb of the house next door and parked.
Charlotte immediately recognized the truck as belonging to the gardener, Joseph O’Connor, but the lone man who climbed out of the truck was Brian, not Joseph.
He acknowledged her presence with a brief nod; then, after he’d unloaded a wheelbarrow, he immediately began stacking it with bags of what looked like fertilizer out of the back of the pickup.
Where was his father? she wondered as she watched Brian heave the large bags out of the truck bed.
Though he was some distance away, with each movement he made she could still see the muscles in his arms and back straining beneath the black T-shirt he wore.
What was it that Bitsy had told her about his father? Something about his being ill? No, not exactly ill, she thought as she walked to the back of the van.
Charlotte climbed inside and began gathering the supplies she would need. Bitsy had said Joseph sometimes had problems with his arthritis and that it was the reason Brian had moved back to New Orleans.
But was that the real reason? Was Brian simply being a good, dutiful son, or did he have another, more sinister agenda for returning to his hometown, one that included revenge and murder?
Supply carrier in hand and her mind whirling with the implications of her thoughts, Charlotte climbed slowly out of the van. As she slammed the door and locked it, she toyed with the idea of using the old gardener’s condition, as an excuse to start up a conversation with his son.
But to what purpose? The moment the question popped into her mind, she immediately realized how far-fetched and silly the whole idea was. If Brian did realize that Anna-Maria was his daughter, he wasn’t about to discuss it with someone he’d only met a few days earlier. And if he’d cold-bloodedly murdered Jackson Dubuisson, he would be a fool to confess his crime to anyone, let alone the maid from next door.
Chiding herself for being such a nosy-rosie, Charlotte pocketed the keys, then walked briskly to the front gate. At the gate, she reached out and tugged on the latch. The latch held fast and didn’t budge, and Charlotte sighed. Had Jeanne forgotten to leave the gate unlocked, after all? Charlotte pulled down hard on the handle one more time, just to make sure, but it still didn’t open.
She glanced up toward the upper gallery, her hand still gripping the handle. What now? she wondered, searching for a solution to the dilemma. She could always use her cell phone to call Clarice and ask her to throw the inside switch that unlocked the gate. But in order to do so, the old lady would have to go down the stairs to where the switch was located, near the front door.
No, Charlotte decided. Even if Clarice agreed to go down the stairs, which she was sure she wouldn’t, she couldn’t take the chance that the old lady might slip and fall. She’d have to think of something else.
But what? she wondered as a frisson of real concern coursed through her. Clarice was in the house, all alone. What if she had another stroke? What if she slipped going to the bathroom, or what if . . .
Charlotte shook her head and tried to block out all of the negative thoughts churning through her mind. Think positive, she commanded herself. There has to be a way to get in.
“Is there something wrong, ma’am?”
Charlotte almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the unexpected male voice directly behind her. When she spun around, the sight of Brian O’Connor standing within touching distance unnerved her even more.
“Hey, take it easy,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Feeling more than a little flustered, Charlotte stared up at the tall, sandy-haired son of the gardener. As she tried to regain control over her momentary panic, once again she was taken aback by a vague feeling of familiarity, the same kind of feeling she’d had when she’d first met him at Bitsy Duhe’s house.
It was his eyes, she decided. Those startling green eyes . . . just like . . . like . . . Of course! she thought. No wonder he seemed familiar. Anna-Maria’s eyes had that same piercing green quality to them, with just a hint of a bruised look about them. Like father, like daughter?
When Charlotte suddenly realized that too much time had passed and that he was looking at her strangely, she blurted out, “The gate is locked. Jeanne—Mrs. Dubuisson, that is—was supposed to leave it open for me, but I guess she forgot.” To emphasize the point, Charlotte rattled the latch. When several strained moments passed again and Brian simply continued to stare at her, Charlotte became uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
She’d wanted to talk to him, question him, but now that she had the opportunity to do so, she didn’t have the foggiest idea as to how to proceed.
“I really need to get in,” she finally said, for no other reason than to fill in the silence. “Everyone’s at the funeral home, all except Miss Clarice. And she’s by herself ”—she waved her hand toward the house—“inside, and I promised Mrs. Dubuisson that I’d keep an eye on her.”
Why on earth was she babbling on so? she wondered. Because he made her nervous, came the answer. Because deep down, in the dark recesses of her mind, she suspected that he could very well be the person who had murdered Jackson Dubuisson.
“I think there’s another way in,” he finally said. Seeing her speculative look, he quickly clarified his statement. “While I was trimming the hedges the other day, I noticed that there’s a gap in the fence on that side. Two of the metal bars must have rusted through. I’ve been meaning to mention it to Jean—Mrs. Dubuisson—but with everything that’s happened, I didn’t want to bother her right now. I think the gap is probably large enough to squeeze through, though, if you’re willing to try it out.”
Had he tried it out? Had he squeezed through the gap, sneaked onto the porch, smashed in the pane of glass . . .
“Show me” was the only thing that Charlotte could think to say. Anything to end the awkward conversation, anything to stop the wild speculations roaring through her mind.
Just as Brian had predicted, the gap in the fence was big enough for Charlotte to squeeze through . . . and big enough for someone larger to squeeze through, too, she thought. . . . Sneaking around . . . spying . . . Someone like Brian O’Connor?
“Thank you,” she told him once she was safely standing on the other side of the fence.
“No problem,” he said. “And if you don’t mind, be sure and tell Mrs. Dubuisson about the fence.”
“I’ll tell her,” Charlotte assured him, eager to end the encounter. “Thanks again,” she added, then turned and hurried toward the front steps.
At the mention of Jeanne’s married name, there had been no hesitation this time, she noted. Too late, though, she thought. He’d already slipped up the first time and almost called her Jeanne. Of course that in itself was no big deal, she silently argued, playing devil’s advocate. After all, according to Bitsy, the two were once in love with each other.
When Charlotte reached the porch, she glanced nervously over her shoulder to see what Brian was doing. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be doing, but to her relief, he had returned to the truck to finish unloading the bags of fertilizer.
Charlotte released a heavy sigh. Had she done it again? she wondered. Had she once again allowed her overactive imagination to get the best of her? After a moment, she decided that maybe she had. Maybe she was making a mountain out of a molehill and had let Bitsy Duhe’s gossip get the best of her.
With a shake of her head, Charlotte turned her attention back to the problem at hand. Since Jeanne had forgotten to unlock the front gate, she worried that she might have forgotten to leave the key to the door, too. When she lifted up the edge of the potted plant next to the door and felt beneath it, Charlotte sighed with
relief when her fingers connected with the small piece of metal.
The moment she stepped inside the foyer, she wrinkled her nose at the distinct odor hanging in the air. Bacon, she decided as she set down her supply carrier. Someone had fried bacon earlier, and the scent of bacon, like the smell of fried fish, always seemed to hang around forever.
Air freshener would take care of the smell, but the first order of the day was to check on Clarice—just a quick peek to make sure the old lady was okay and to ease her mind. Then she needed to get a move on before the caterers delivered the food or before someone decided to show up at the house early.
Halfway up the staircase, the muted sound of voices, followed by canned laughter, drifted down. Clarice’s television. Not wanting to startle the old lady, Charlotte called out to her before she reached her door.
“Miss Clarice! It’s Charlotte.” She waited a moment, then peeked around the door. “Good morning,” she told the older woman.
As usual, Clarice was still in bed, and though she looked a bit more tidy than the last time Charlotte had seen her, she also appeared to be a bit flushed.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?” Charlotte asked her.
The old lady totally ignored her question. “You’re late,” she said, her gaze never wavering from the TV set. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
Good old Clarice, Charlotte thought. Rude as ever. “Yes, well, I had a little problem getting in,” she explained, thinking that the old lady sounded a bit breathless as well as looking flushed. Maybe she should take Clarice’s temperature just to make sure she wasn’t running a fever. “Jeanne must have forgotten to leave the front gate unlocked.”
“Sounds like that airhead daughter of mine.”
It was hard to bite back the stinging retort that popped into her head, hard to keep from telling the old lady that she was an ungrateful old grouch who should be thankful she had such a kind, loving daughter like Jeanne. But Charlotte reminded herself that Clarice was just that, an old woman.
“Yes . . . well, I just wanted to let you know I’m here,” Charlotte told her, noting with relief that the flush seemed to be fading. Just excitement, she figured, or agitation because she’d been late showing up. Besides, she thought, Jeanne would never have left her mother unattended if she’d suspected she was ill.
“I’ll be cleaning the bottom floor first,” Charlotte said, “but if you need anything, just call out.”
Charlotte waited a moment longer for some kind of response, but when Clarice kept watching the TV and said nothing, Charlotte finally left the room.
Downstairs, as Charlotte entered the kitchen, she quickly glanced around, mentally listing the chores that needed taking care of by priority.
There were unwashed dishes in the sink. A dirty plate and fork, along with the morning newspaper, cluttered up the breakfast table, and on the counter next to the stove top sat a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.
She walked over to the stove, a frown on her face. A dirty skillet was on one of the burners, and a film of grease was splattered all over the stove top. Someone had definitely fried bacon.
Strange, she thought as she reached out to remove the frying pan. When Jeanne cooked, she always cleaned up after herself. Charlotte couldn’t recall her ever having left such a greasy mess.
The moment Charlotte touched the handle of the skillet, her frown grew deeper. She released the handle and gingerly tapped the pan itself. Sure enough, the pan was still warm.
“Now that’s really strange,” she muttered as she took hold of the handle and poured the grease into a nearby garbage pail, then placed the skillet in the sink. By her calculations, Jeanne and Anna-Maria had to have left well over thirty minutes earlier, plenty of time for the pan to have cooled off.
Charlotte squirted a dab of liquid detergent in the pan, then filled it with water to soak. After she turned off the faucet, she walked over to the table to retrieve the plate and fork. Back at the sink, she rinsed the plate before placing it in the dishwasher. It wasn’t until she had actually stacked the plate in the dishwasher that it suddenly dawned on her that the leftover egg yolk on the plate had rinsed off beneath the spray of water without her having to scrub it, which meant it hadn’t congealed yet, which, in turn, meant that it hadn’t been that long since someone had eaten the plate of food.
For several moments, Charlotte stood staring out the window above the sink as she tried to put her finger on just exactly what was bothering her about the messy kitchen. Then she recalled a conversation between Jeanne and Clarice . . . Clarice saying something about wanting bacon . . . lots of bacon, fried nice and crisp.
“Of course,” she murmured. The obvious answer was that Clarice had decided to fix her own breakfast after her daughter and granddaughter had left. But Clarice didn’t cook as far as Charlotte knew, and she didn’t go up and down the stairs by herself, either.
Or did she? Charlotte wondered, remembering the scuff marks she’d had to scrub off the steps. And if Clarice could negotiate the stairs without assistance, why pretend otherwise all this time?
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the half-hour, the sound penetrating Charlotte’s reverie, and she felt a momentary panic. At the most, she only had a little over an hour and a half before the caterers showed up.
Other than the dirty dishes and the grease-splattered stove top, the kitchen was basically clean, and it didn’t take her long to load the dishwasher, then wipe down the stove top, the countertops, and the appliances.
Charlotte chose to use the broom instead of the noisy vacuum cleaner just in case Clarice might call out or need something. Then she mopped the room.
The dining room only took minutes to clean. Charlotte dusted the huge antique table and matching China cabinet, but she decided against taking the time to wax or polish the furniture. Instead, she concentrated on the sideboard, since it would be used to hold the food brought in by the caterers.
Once she was finished with the dining room, she moved to the parlor. After eyeing the large room, she decided that all it needed was straightening and a bit of dusting. Though she would have normally vacuumed, too, she decided to make a quick check on Clarice first before running the noisy machine.
From the sound of Clarice’s television filtering down the stairs, Charlotte recognized a popular game show. Knowing that the old lady sometimes napped about midmorning, she decided against calling out to her this time as she quietly approached the bedroom door.
When Charlotte peeked around the corner of the open doorway, it took a moment for the sight before her to register in her mind.
She’d expected to see Clarice dozing peacefully. But Clarice wasn’t asleep. The shock of what she did see hit her full force, and her mouth dropped open.
Chapter Seventeen
Clarice was standing beside the bed, her back to the doorway, and in each of her hands was a small barbell.
Charlotte clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle bubbling up in her throat. Dressed in her flannel nightgown, her thin gray hair sticking out like porcupine quills, the old lady looked ridiculous, all hunched over, straining to lift the weights.
But Charlotte’s amusement swiftly grew into amazement as she watched Clarice slowly lift first one arm, then the other. But from the way her arms quivered, Charlotte could tell that the exertion was a strain.
Weight training? Clarice worked out with weights? What a hoot! she thought. As long as she’d been employed by the Dubuissons, Charlotte couldn’t ever recall seeing Clarice do any kind of physical exercise despite Jeanne’s efforts to persuade her otherwise. In fact, the old lady balked at even the suggestion of doing anything physical.
But as Charlotte continued watching the older woman, she recognized immediately that Clarice was no stranger to using the weights. She knew exactly what she was doing.
As she continued to observe the old lady and felt her own arms strain with each curl the old lady achieved, a peculiar feelin
g deep inside took root and grew. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but instinct told her that the old lady probably wouldn’t appreciate having an audience.
Charlotte quickly backed away from the door, then retraced her steps to the top of the stairwell. The thing to do would be to ignore what she saw, to simply take care of what she was hired to do and mind her own business.
Still . . . there was something about the whole thing that bothered her, and like a pesky fly that wouldn’t go away, her curiosity finally got the best of her. What would happen if . . .
Before she could change her mind, Charlotte called out, “Miss Clarice, you doing okay in there?” Charlotte took her time walking back to the bedroom door.
When she looked inside the room, Clarice was back in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Her wrinkled face was flushed, reminding Charlotte of how it had looked when she’d first arrived and checked on her, and the barbells were nowhere in sight.
Either Clarice had hidden the weights under the bedcovers or she had shoved them beneath the bed. But the truly bizarre thing about the whole incident was that the old lady was lying there with her eyes closed; of all things, she was pretending to be asleep.
But why? Charlotte wondered as she stared at the old woman. Why would she hide the fact that she was weight lifting or that she was stronger than she pretended to be? To what purpose?
When the answer first popped into her mind, Charlotte almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the notion. At first, she dismissed the idea totally as but one more example of her own overactive imagination.
But as she backed out of the doorway, a prickly feeling danced along the nape of her neck, and her mind was bombarded with what could only be described as instant replays of different scenes that had occurred over the past week.
. . . the arguments between Clarice and Jeanne over Jackson . . . the coarse, powdery substance in Clarice’s bathroom ... the almost-empty sleeping-pill bottle . . . the description of the murder weapon in the autopsy report . . . the scuff marks on the stairs ... the smell of bacon and the messy kitchen . . .
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