Dusted to Death

by Barbara Colley

  The man rolled his eyes. “Hey, Jake, the maid’s here,” he yelled. To Charlotte he said, “Over there.” He pointed toward a group of people huddled near the end of the hallway. “Jake’s the tall dude with the bald head.”

  Once Charlotte spotted the man he’d described, she said, “Thanks.” Charlotte was almost to the group when the baldheaded man broke away and met her halfway.

  “You the maid?”

  Still clutching her supply carrier, Charlotte nodded. “Charlotte LaRue.”

  The man shrugged. “Whatever. Follow me.”

  Whatever? No pleased to meet you, how are you, or even kiss my foot. How rude! Probably one of those high-powered lawyer types, she figured; the kind used to people snapping to attention every time he entered a room.

  Dodging two cameramen and their cameras, Charlotte followed Jake back to the kitchen. When she entered the room she noticed that it looked pretty much the same as it had always looked. Either the crew hadn’t gotten around to changing it or the kitchen wouldn’t be included in any of the scenes.

  Bitsy would be relieved. There weren’t too many things that Bitsy truly valued in her home, but her vast collection of kitchen gadgets was at the top of the list, right there along with the portraits of her granddaughters that hung in the front parlor.

  Jake walked to the table and unlatched a bulging briefcase. After thumbing through several file folders, he pulled one out. “You can store your stuff in that closet over there.” He pointed to the pantry. Tapping his foot, he waited impatiently until Charlotte had dutifully placed her supply carrier and purse in the bottom of the pantry and closed the door.

  “Okay, I need you to sign the forms in this folder. Sign your full name wherever you see a red check mark.” He rummaged through the briefcase again, then placed another form on top of the folder. “Fill this one out for tax purposes,” he said, handing her a pen.

  The stack of forms inside the folder was a bit daunting. She was tempted just to sign them and get it over with, but she’d learned a long time ago to never, but never, sign anything before reading it. She slid the forms over and pulled out a chair. Once seated, she began reading the top form.

  “You’re going to read them?”

  The man’s incredulous tone hit a nerve. Charlotte slowly raised her head. “That’s right.”

  “Except for the tax forms, the rest are just release forms, lady.”

  Charlotte gave the rude man a saccharine smile, and in a voice that belied the smile she said, “I never sign anything without reading it first.”

  Jake rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and muttered several expletives that made Charlotte want to slap his face. “Watch your language, mister.”

  “My—my language? You’ve got to be kidding?”

  “Nope. I’m as serious as a heart attack.”

  “Oh, sh—”

  Charlotte threw up her hand, palm out, and shook her head. “Uh-uh—not that one either.” From the confused look on Jake’s face, it was more than evident that no one had ever attempted to correct his foul language.

  “What are you?” he demanded. “Some kind of Puritan or something?”

  An amused smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. “‘Or something.’ Now—if you don’t mind, I’ll just get these read and signed.”

  “Knock yourself out, lady, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than stand here and watch you read. When you’re finished, put the forms back into the file folder and leave them on top of my briefcase.”

  This time Charlotte was the one who rolled her eyes. “Too bad that your mama never taught you any manners.”

  Jake’s face suddenly flushed crimson. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Charlotte couldn’t tell, but she suspected the former, especially when he suddenly pivoted and stalked out of the kitchen.

  Once Charlotte had finished with the forms and placed the folder on top of Jake’s briefcase, she went in search for someone who could tell her exactly what her job involved. She also wanted to find out where Bitsy’s belongings were stored.

  The minute she stepped out of the kitchen, she heard a deep, male voice calling her name.

  “LaRue—Charlotte LaRue. Anyone seen Charlotte LaRue?”

  With a frown, Charlotte headed toward the sound of the voice. “I’m Charlotte,” she called out, searching for the person she’d heard calling her.

  “Charlotte?”

  The voice came from just behind her, and she whirled around. Standing within touching distance was one of the most gorgeous young men that she’d ever met. His hair was coal black, though just a bit long for her personal taste; yet, it seemed to fit him to a tee. But it was his eyes that held her gaze, eyes so darkly blue they were almost purple, and framed with long, thick lashes that most women would die for.

  “Ah—I—I’m Charlotte,” she finally blurted out once she could breathe again.

  “Hey, there, Charlotte.” He shot her a dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. “I’m Dalton, the prop manager. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Same here,” she said.

  “Let’s get you introduced around, and then we can both get to work. But first, why don’t I tell you just a little about the movie?”

  Charlotte grinned. “That would be great!”

  “It’s basically a story of an overbearing man whose wife died in childbirth, and he’s left to raise his headstrong daughter alone. The story takes place during the daughter’s teen years and it’s basically an object lesson on the father learning to let go and the daughter learning to be more responsible.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Sounds, ah—interesting. And of course Hunter Lansky is the father and Angel Martinique has to be the daughter.”

  Dalton nodded. “Of course. But between you and me, it’s not all that interesting. But then, what do I know? I’m only the set prop manager.”

  Silently, Charlotte agreed with him about the movie plot, but she simply smiled.

  “Okay—now for those introductions.” Dalton nudged her forward.

  After the first ten minutes of introductions, Charlotte figured out fast there was no way that she was ever going to remember the names of everyone. Then, across the room, she saw a familiar face, and she was suddenly hot and cold all over at the same time.

  Hunter Lansky.

  When she heard Dalton chuckle beside her, she figured she probably looked as starstruck as she felt.

  “Don’t worry,” Dalton told her. “He has that effect on everyone.” Then, without warning, he called out, “Hey, Hunter, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

  Charlotte felt like a giddy schoolgirl again as the man she’d once idolized turned and smiled, then headed toward them. But she wasn’t a goggle-eyed teenager any longer—hadn’t been for decades. And he was no longer a young, handsome movie idol. He was still handsome enough for an older man, but without the big screen and makeup, he was, after all, just a man. At least that’s what she kept telling herself as he approached them.

  He held out his hand, and in that deep, mellow voice that had helped to make him so famous and had once sent shivers down her spine, he said, “Nice to meet you, Charlotte.” He enclosed her hand in his. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Taken aback, Charlotte frowned. “You have?”

  Hunter smiled and nodded. “Ms. Duhè couldn’t sing your praises loud enough. And without you, we wouldn’t be able to use this lovely old house.”

  Oh, dear Lord, there was no telling what Bitsy had told them. “Well, Ms. Duhè sometimes has a tendency to exaggerate a bit.”

  Hunter chuckled. “And she’s humble,” he said to Dalton as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “I like that about a woman.” He released her hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sweet lady, I think makeup is waiting for me.”

  “Of course.” With a sigh, Charlotte watched him walk away. “Such a nice man,” she said beneath her breath to no one in particular.

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Dalton cleared his
throat. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested.

  Jolted out of her reverie, Charlotte nodded.

  As they walked up the stairs, Dalton explained exactly what Charlotte’s duties would be. Though she tried concentrating on what he was telling her, her thoughts kept straying. What on earth had Bitsy said about her? Whatever it was, it seemed to have made a definite impression on Hunter Lansky, which was a good thing. At least she thought it was a good thing.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlotte, get a grip. The man is an actor, and everyone knows you can’t believe a word they say. Besides, remember? He’s just a man. He puts his pants on one leg at a time just like anyone else.

  Ignoring the aggravating voice in her head, Charlotte tried harder to pay attention to what Dalton was saying as they threaded their way through busy crew members in the hallway.

  “In here—” Dalton motioned toward one of the bedrooms—“is Angel’s dressing room.”

  “I thought actors and actresses always had their own small, private trailers.”

  “Most of the time they do,” Dalton said. “But Angel—” He shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s different.”

  The first thing that Charlotte noticed was that the bedroom, normally a guest room, had been stripped of all of Bitsy’s furniture and decorations. Instead, there were racks of clothes, a small refrigerator, a chaise longue, and a couple of extra chairs along with a styling chair that was positioned in front of a table and mirror that reminded her of a beauty shop setup. Also, stacked on the floor in the corner were several cases of bottled water. But it was the absence of Bitsy’s things that reminded her she needed to ask about the storage of Bitsy’s stuff.

  The second thing she noted was the attractive, young Hispanic woman who was busy organizing what appeared to be hundreds of exotic-looking beauty items on the table.

  They were all so young, she thought, as she watched the woman. With the exception of Hunter Lansky, everyone she’d met so far was young enough to be her child, which made her feel really old by comparison.

  Dalton motioned toward the woman. “That nice lady over there is Heather Cortez, Angel’s makeup girl. Heather, meet our cleaning lady, Charlotte LaRue.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Nice to meet you, Heather.” But when Heather turned toward her, Charlotte’s smile faded a bit. Something about Heather’s face didn’t quite look right. One side appeared to be larger than the other side. Suddenly, realization hit Charlotte, and she sighed. It appeared to be larger because it was swollen.

  Not again, she thought. It hadn’t been that long ago that she had seen something similar, one of her clients with the same type of injury. Though Heather had done an excellent job covering up what Charlotte suspected was a bruised face, there was no way to cover up the fact that it was also swollen. Like the other woman Charlotte had known, did Heather also have an abusive husband? And also like her former client, she couldn’t help wondering what kind of excuse Heather would have for the bruise.

  When Dalton cleared his throat and wouldn’t look directly at Heather, Charlotte knew that she was right. Others had noticed as well.

  “Heather will give you the lowdown about Angel’s stuff—what to touch and what not to touch,” Dalton told Charlotte.

  Heather smiled back at Charlotte, but before she had a chance to even say hello, there was a loud commotion in the hallway, followed by raised, angry voices.

  “Simon only wants the best for you,” a man yelled.

  “I don’t care what Simon Clark wants,” a woman yelled back. “I don’t work for Simon. He works for me, so you go tell him to take that offer and shove it.”

  “Uh-oh, the lovebirds are at it again,” Dalton muttered in an aside to Charlotte.

  Lovebirds? Was he being sarcastic? Before Charlotte could decide one way or another, a beautiful young woman dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes flounced into the room. With her signature long, thick blond hair, her flawless complexion and perfectly shaped face, not to mention her large emerald-green eyes, Angel Martinique was immediately recognizable.

  Unlike Hunter Lansky, Angel was just as breathtaking off-screen as on-screen. But for some reason, an old saying Charlotte used to hear her grandmother say came to mind. Pretty is as pretty does. And, at the moment, in spite of her beauty, Angel wasn’t very pretty.

  Following close behind Angel was yet another handsome young man. This one reminded Charlotte of hot sandy beaches where the lifeguards were all hunks with bleached-blond hair and bronze bodies pumped up with rippling muscles.

  “Now, now, honey, don’t be like that,” the man told Angel.

  Angel plopped down into the padded swivel chair in front of the mirror and glared at her reflection. “Don’t ‘honey’ me, Nick Franklin,” she retorted. “Now go away. I have to be on the set in half an hour.”

  “Can I at least tell him you’ll think about it?”

  Angel whirled around. “I told you to go away,” she screamed at him. Then, without warning, expletives that would have made a sailor cringe spewed out of her mouth, all directed at Nick.

  Charlotte froze. Every bit of PR that she’d seen about Angel had touted her as the wholesome girl next door, and without fail, all of her movies had been G-rated, family-type flicks. Either the real Angel had an evil twin or her PR people were doing what PR people do best: lying through their pearly whites.

  “Okay, okay.” Nick threw up his hands in surrender and backed out of the room. “Just calm down, honey, okay? Calm down.”

  Guess Dalton was being sarcastic after all, Charlotte decided. Surely, not even love could make someone take the kind of verbal abuse that Angel was dishing out.

  The second Nick disappeared, Angel’s angry gaze settled on Dalton and Charlotte. “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “It can wait,” Dalton answered quickly.

  “Well, get out, then.” Dismissing them with a blink of her eyes, Angel whirled back around to face the mirror. “Heather, now!” she demanded.

  As if she’d been given a direct order by a military general and totally ignoring Charlotte and Dalton, Heather immediately snapped to attention. She quickly slipped a headband over Angel’s head to hold her hair back, and began working on Angel’s makeup.

  Dalton gently nudged the small of Charlotte’s back. “Time to go,” he told her in a low voice, as he guided her through the doorway into the hall. “You’ll need to talk to Heather later, but now is not a good time.”

  Unlike before, the hallway was almost empty…almost, except for the giant of a man standing next to the doorway.

  Since the top of Charlotte’s head barely reached the man’s shoulder, she tilted her head back. The man was completely bald. Had to be shaved, Charlotte decided, since he was really too young to be bald naturally. The color of his eyes was almost as dark as his black slacks and skintight T-shirt, and his ham-hock arms were crossed against his broad muscular chest.

  Mr. Clean.

  A grin twitched at her lips. Yep, he reminded her of the cartoon character in the Mr. Clean TV commercials.

  When Dalton nodded at the giant and said, “Morning, Toby,” the giant didn’t respond. Dalton gave Toby a good-natured slap on his shoulder. “Toby here is Angel’s bodyguard and fitness trainer,” he explained to Charlotte. Then Dalton grinned. “And he’s also a man of few words.”

  Bodyguard? So, where was Toby when Angel was arguing with Nick? Not knowing exactly how to react, Charlotte finally said, “Nice to meet you, Toby.” As he’d done with Dalton, Toby didn’t respond. With a shrug, Charlotte followed Dalton down the hall.

  At the top of the stairs, they both paused.

  “Ah, Dalton, before I forget, I need to ask you what’s been done with Mrs. Duhè’s furnishings.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Everything’s been cataloged and stored in a climate-controlled storage van parked on the side of the street near the house.”

  Vaguely recalling the large van that she’d seen when she’d first approached Bitsy
’s house earlier, Charlotte nodded.

  “And don’t worry. I’ll make sure that it’s all put back exactly like we found it once we’re done.”

  “But how will you know where it all belongs?”

  Dalton grinned. “We took lots of pictures before we removed the stuff.”

  That made sense, she thought.

  “And we have you as a backup to make sure that we get it right.” He paused a moment, then added, “One last thing, Charlotte. Don’t move or clean anything where we’re shooting unless I say so or without consulting me first. In fact, for right now, why don’t you just hang out up here until Heather is finished with Angel’s makeup? Once Angel leaves, then get Heather to fill you in about Angel’s stuff.”

  Before Charlotte could ask Dalton exactly what he’d meant by “Angel’s stuff,” someone below yelled his name.

  “Gotta run,” Dalton told her. Turning, he hurried down the stairs.

  Once Dalton was out of sight, Charlotte glanced over toward Angel’s dressing room, where Mr. Clean still stood guard. Again, a grin twitched at her lips, but trying her best to keep a straight face, she reminded herself that the man’s name was Toby, not Mr. Clean. She’d have to be extra careful and remember that, lest she made a slip and embarrassed herself.

  So now what? Glancing around, she weighed her options. Never one who enjoyed being idle, especially if she was on a paying job, she decided that she might as well go ahead and check out all of the other rooms on the second level while she waited for Heather to finish up with Angel.

  Her ears tuned in to any noise that would indicate that Heather was once again available, Charlotte inspected each of the other rooms. With the exception of the master suite, which, like the front parlor, had been completely refurbished, the rest of the rooms looked the same as the last time she’d cleaned Bitsy’s house. Too bad she’d left her supply carrier down in the pantry. Though the rooms looked the same as far as furnishings went, she had noticed that they needed a good dusting.

  Maybe later, she decided, as she stepped back into the hall. Glancing at Toby, she sighed. Since there was no way she wanted to wait outside the door with Mr. Clean, she headed back toward the stairs. Besides, she’d feel silly just standing there like a bump on a log. At least she could sit on the stairs.