Maid for Murder (Charlotte LaRue Mystery Series, Book 1)

by Barbara Colley

  Back in the living room, Charlotte seated herself on the opposite end of the sofa from Judith. “I’m pretty sure I know what you want, hon,” she said, accepting the glass of iced tea that Judith handed her, “but I won’t pretend I like it.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Charley. I know all about your privileged-information policy. But I’m getting nowhere fast with this case, and I have to explore every angle.” Judith pulled out a small notebook from her briefcase and flipped through it to a page filled with notes; then she shifted on the sofa to face Charlotte. “At approximately one A.M. Monday morning, someone either broke in or made it appear that they broke into the Dubuissons’ home through the French doors leading out onto the porch. We’ve already established that the front gate was unlocked. Would you happen to know why the gate was left unlocked?”

  “Did you ask Jeanne?”

  “Yes, Auntie, I did. But I’d like to hear your answer.”

  “Well, there’s no big mystery, hon. Jackson often worked on the weekends, and if he was going to be late, she’d leave the gate unlocked so as not to be disturbed when he came home.”

  Judith nodded. “That’s what she said.”

  Charlotte tilted her head, a puzzled look on her face. “Why did you say ‘made it appear’ earlier?”

  Judith waved away the question without looking up. “I’ll get to that in a minute,” she said, her gaze still on her notes. “There were a couple of papers—deeds and stuff—left on the desk, the kind that would be kept in a safe, so I figure that the safe was probably already open. Of course, any good thief worth his salt could crack that particular kind of safe,” she added. “But I don’t think that was necessary in this case.

  “We also found a half-empty bottle of Scotch on the desk and not much sign of a struggle. We already know that the Scotch was a new bottle, a gift from Jackson’s partner, Tony Marriott. Supposedly it was a peace offering of sorts for an argument they’d had.”

  Judith shifted again on the sofa, a sure sign she was under stress, and Charlotte almost felt sorry for her. Anytime her niece was worried or in an uncomfortable or tense situation, she resorted to what Charlotte thought of as the nervous fidgets. The girl simply couldn’t keep still.

  She looked up at Charlotte. “The way I figure it,” she continued, “Jackson was either passed out and came to while the killer was robbing him or he was well on his way to a drunken stupor, too drunk to put up a fight but sober enough to identify the intruder. Why else would the intruder have bashed him in the head?”

  . . . bashed him in the head . . . A sudden prickly feeling of déjà vu came over Charlotte as she listened to her niece’s description of the murder scene. Each detail was almost identical to what Bitsy had told her about Andrew St. Martin’s murder, a murder that had occurred over fifteen years earlier.

  It was Charlotte’s turn to fidget while her niece paused to take several swallows of her tea. Was it possible that Judith didn’t know about Andrew’s murder? Fifteen years ago, Judith would have still been a teenager, but surely someone with the police department had already recalled the incident. Surely someone older who had been around for a while had already pointed out the similarities of the two murders. Someone like Louis Thibodeaux.

  Judith had to know, she decided, and Charlotte couldn’t think of any good reason to bring up the matter. But there were several reasons not to. For one, with her being the Dubuissons’ maid, if she did bring it up, Judith might become even more suspicious of the family than she already was.

  While Charlotte continued her mental debate, Judith set her glass down and picked up her story where she’d left off. “But all of that is how it could have happened,” she said. “Personally, I think it was an inside job. And so does Thibodeaux. We both think it’s possible the whole thing was staged . . . the broken glass, the fact that Jackson Dubuisson was bashed in the head and not shot . . .” She waved her hand. “Et cetera, et cetera.

  “Assuming that the murder wasn’t simply a random burglary gone sour, so far we have two definite suspects. Right now, Tony Marriott and Jeanne Dubuisson are our best bets.”

  “No!” Charlotte shook her head adamantly. “Not Jeanne,” she protested. “Jeanne wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Now don’t get all upset, Aunt Charley.” Judith reached over and patted her shoulder. “We always look at the spouse as a suspect in a murder case. And you’d be surprised at what people are capable of doing, even the seemingly nice ones. But if it will make you feel any better, so far we haven’t uncovered a motive for Jeanne Dubuisson to have killed her husband. Not yer.”

  Charlotte nodded slowly, not because she agreed with Judith, at least not about Jeanne’s having killed Jackson. But she did understand what Judith was telling her. It was exactly the same thing Bitsy had said about Clarice’s being the main suspect in Andrew’s murder.

  “We’ll know more once the autopsy is done,” Judith said, then glanced up at the cuckoo clock on the wall. “The coroner should be finished by now, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have that report tomorrow morning.”

  “So what about Tony Marriott?” Charlotte asked. “Why is he a suspect?” Though she could pretty much guess why, she was curious to hear the official reason the police suspected him.

  “He and Jackson had an altercation Friday night at the Zoo To Do. Witnesses say that Tony accused Jackson of having an affair with his wife. He also made some other accusations as well.”

  “Like what?” Charlotte asked.

  “Primarily, he made noises about Jackson systematically transferring funds out of the firm into his own personal account.”

  “I was there Friday night,” Charlotte confessed, “and I saw them having words. But I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying,” she hastened to add.

  Judith suddenly grinned. “Hank won out and made you go, after all, huh?”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes upward toward the ceiling. “You, of all people, should know how persuasive that son of mine can be.”

  “You’re right about that.” Judith laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I got into trouble growing up all because my dear cousin talked me into doing something I shouldn’t have done.” She paused for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes, and her expression softened. “We had some good times, though, despite the circumstances, didn’t we, Aunt Charley?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte assured her, knowing exactly the circumstances that Judith was referring to. “Yes, we did,” she confirmed. Then, gently, knowing how painful the subject could be, she asked, “Have you seen your father lately?”

  “No, not in a while, not since he married again.” Judith suddenly grimaced and made a sound of disgust. “Can you believe? This is his fourth marriage, and each time, his wives just keep getting younger and younger. This time he married one younger than I am.”

  Charlotte winced at the bitterness in her niece’s voice, bitterness resulting from years of hurt and neglect by a father who didn’t know the meaning of the words love and responsibility.

  “Have you mentioned this to your mother yet?”

  Judith shook her head that she hadn’t. “You know how she gets,” she said. “I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her, not this time.”

  Charlotte nodded in agreement. She loved her sister dearly, but she would never understand the love-hate relationship that Madeline had with her ex-husband. Though it had been years since he had run off with another woman and left Madeline with two small children to raise by herself, each of the two other times he’d remarried had thrown her into a tailspin of depression. The kids had still been young then, and Charlotte was the one who had taken care of Judith and Daniel until Madeline was able to snap out of it.

  Abruptly, Judith shook her head as if the action would wipe away the disturbing thoughts of her father and mother. Then, with a sigh, she squared her shoulders. “In the meantime, though,” she said, “I’ve still got a case to solve.” She flipped through the notebook to a clean page and reached for a p
en in her briefcase. “So,” she said, pen poised in her hand, “what kind of relationship did Jeanne and Jackson Dubuisson have? Did they get along? Did they argue?”

  “Like I said earlier, he worked a lot,” Charlotte answered diplomatically. “I rarely ever saw them together,” she explained. “Mr. Dubuisson was always gone by the time I got there, and I always left before he got home.”

  “Come on, Aunt Charley, you know what I mean.”

  Torn between keeping her client’s confidence and divulging what she knew, Charlotte hesitated.

  He’s stealing you blind

  Clarice’s accusation rang in Charlotte’s ears, and she winced. “Well, I never heard them argue,” she said truthfully.

  “Aunt Charley. Surely Jeanne Dubuisson mentioned her husband to you once in a while.”

  “She never actually complained, mind you. All she ever said was that he worked a lot even when he was home.”

  Judith made a sound of frustration. “This is getting us nowhere fast. Okay, forget her for now. What about the old lady?”

  “What about her?” Charlotte hedged.

  “Did she get along with her son-in-law? Did she like him, hate him? What?”

  “She’s an old lady,” Charlotte answered. “She has her good days and bad days.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it. Please, Aunt Charley, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

  Charlotte stared at her niece. “You’re right. It’s just that—I—I—” She shrugged away the explanation. “Never mind.” She lifted her chin. “Miss Clarice was very vocal in her opinions about Jackson. She didn’t like him or respect him. But like I said, she’s an old lady ... maybe even a bit senile at times.” And that was all Charlotte intended to say on the matter.

  “The girl ...” Judith checked her notes. “I believe Anna-Maria is her name. How did she get along with her father?”

  When Charlotte glared at her niece, Judith held up her hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Forget the daughter. But Aunt Charley, is there anything—anything at all—that you can tell me about the Dubuisson family or their friends that might help?”

  Charlotte thought about Brian O’Connor and what Clarice had said about him. Still she hesitated. But which would be worse? To maintain her loyalty and keep what Clarice had told her to herself or breach that loyalty in hopes of protecting the family from further allegations?

  In an attempt to stretch the tense muscles in her neck, she tilted her head first to one side and then the other. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, there might be a way she could tell what she knew without compromising her principles.

  “There might be another suspect,” she finally said. “Mind you, I said might,” she emphasized when she saw Judith’s eyes brighten with interest. “But I won’t tell you how I know, so don’t ask.”

  “Okay, Aunt Charley. Fair enough ... for now. So—who is this suspect?”

  “There’s a man named Brian O’Connor who my source claims is the murderer,” Charlotte began, and as she repeated what she’d been told by Clarice, Judith jotted down notes, only interrupting Charlotte’s story to clarify a couple of the facts.

  “And you’re sure you can’t tell me who gave you this information?” she asked when Charlotte had finished.

  “I’d rather not,” she answered. “I can’t see what purpose it would serve at this stage.”

  “Hmm ...” Judith tapped the notebook with the pen. “I suppose you’re right, but I might have to insist that you do so at some point if any of what you’ve told me about this Brian O’Connor turns out to be true. But even if it’s true, even if he is Anna-Maria Dubuisson’s real father, that’s not much of a motive for murder.” She paused. “And another thing. Why now? Why would he have waited so long to get his revenge?”

  Judith’s questions weren’t really directed at Charlotte and didn’t require a response, but sharp pangs of guilt nagged at her. “If it helps,” she said, “I can’t see how it’s much of a motive, either. And to be honest, I don’t consider the information that reliable, considering the person who told me. But be that as it may, I still felt obligated to pass it along.”

  Judith shoved her fingers through her hair and flounced around to a different position on the sofa. “Don’t worry about it, Aunt Charley. You did the right thing by telling me, and I’ll check it out. Discreetly, of course,” she added. “But at this rate, this case is going nowhere fast. And frankly, right now, I’m at a dead end—Oops! Sorry, Aunt Charley, no pun intended. All I meant was that both the primary suspects have alibis.”

  Hoping that Judith would tell her more about the alibis, Charlotte raised one eyebrow and directed a pointed look at her.

  “Okay, okay. I really shouldn’t,” she said, “but I don’t guess it would hurt to tell you. None of it is a big, dark secret, anyway. Tony Marriott claims he and his wife were on their sailboat in the middle of Lake Pontchartrain at the time. And of course, his wife corroborates the story.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine Tony would be stupid enough to murder Jackson, anyway,” Charlotte exclaimed, “especially not after what happened on Friday night. As a lawyer, surely he would realize that there were too many witnesses to his altercation with Jackson.”

  Judith nodded. “Exactly my conclusions, too.”

  “And Jeanne?”

  “Mrs. Dubuisson’s mother swears that she and her daughter were watching a late-night television movie together. Says she wasn’t feeling well and Jeanne didn’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Sounds like something Jeanne would do,” Charlotte said. “She’s very devoted to her mother.”

  “Yes, well, at first I thought it was a little strange that neither of the women heard anything.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “But the way that house is built, and if they were both upstairs with a television set going, it’s possible, I suppose.”

  Judith paused and stared with unseeing eyes at a point just beyond Charlotte’s head. “The case is young yet, but the whole thing has me stumped. Brick-wall time,” she said, unable to mask her frustration. “I’ll check around about this Brian O’Connor person. But unless we can come up with a murder weapon or discredit either Jeanne Dubuisson’s or Tony Marriott’s alibis, I’m afraid this is going to be just one more of those lovely unsolved cases that already clutter my files.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Normally, Charlotte tried to keep Thursdays free from commitments so she could catch up on paperwork or do whatever was needed to keep her service running smoothly as well as take care of personal errands. But with the two unexpected days off on Monday and Tuesday, she’d already done everything. Thursday loomed before her like a vast wasteland of unending time.

  “And Hank wants me to retire,” she muttered as she pulled on her walking shoes. Without her work, what would she do all day long?

  Go crazy, she thought as she tied the laces into double knots, then headed for the front door. “Absolutely crazy, crazy, crazy,” she told Sweety Boy as she paused in front of his cage.

  But Charlotte knew there was more to her restlessness than having nothing to do. She could always find something to do if she really wanted to. And if all else failed, she could always catch up on the latest movies she hadn’t seen in the theater. It had been a long time since she’d indulged in one of her afternoon movie marathons.

  The trouble was, she didn’t want to do anything. After Judith had left, she’d tried watching television, but even with eighty-some-odd cable stations to choose from, nothing had held her interest for very long. She’d finally selected a book from the fresh batch Bitsy had given her and tried reading for a while.

  But nothing had worked, and she’d spent a restless night tossing and turning and replaying in her mind the conversation she’d had with her niece about the relationships between the members of the Dubuisson family.

  “One thing I can do, though,” she told the little parakeet. She poked her finger into the cage and wiggled it. “I can clea
n out that nasty cage of yours.” As if agreeing, the little bird nodded his head up and down and made chirping noises; then he hopped closer to her finger.

  Charlotte rubbed the back of his head. “Now say, ‘Bye-bye, Charlotte,’ ” she instructed. The parakeet pushed against her finger with his head and made a gurgling noise. “Come on, boy, you can do it. Say it. Say, ‘Bye-bye, Charlotte.’ ”

  “Crazy.”

  Charlotte froze when she heard the garbled sound. “Did you just say, ‘Crazy’?” She stared at the little bird and narrowed her eyes. The parakeet cocked his head and stared back. “No way,” she whispered, pulling her finger out of the cage. “Bad enough I talk to myself. Now I’m hearing things as well.”

  Outside, the sky was overcast, and the warm air was heavy and humid, a sure sign of rain. The narrow street was quiet, with little traffic, since most of Charlotte’s neighbors had either already left for work or hadn’t ventured out yet.

  Across the street, her neighbor’s black-and-tan Doberman suddenly spotted her. He bared his teeth and, with a low warning growl, strained against the leash that kept him tied to the front porch. Then he began to bark.

  Charlotte glared at the Doberman. “Be quiet, Prince,” she commanded in a firm, loud voice. “It’s just me, you silly mutt.”

  Prince immediately stopped barking and began to whine instead. Ignoring the dog, Charlotte took a few minutes to do some warm-up stretches, then she struck out down the sidewalk and headed toward the intersection of Milan and Magazine.

  But with every step, no matter how hard she tried to clear her mind and concentrate on coordinating the swinging of her arms and her breathing with her pace, nagging thoughts of Jackson Dubuisson’s murder kept interfering.