Overtired, Charlotte decided, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. She was too tired too sleep, if such a thing were even possible. With a groan, she flipped onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling.
Just breathe deeply and try to relax.
Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she repeated the process. Outside, the Doberman across the street barked. In the distance the faint sound of a siren grew louder, then finally faded away.
Inside, Charlotte took another deep breath and let it out slowly, then flipped over onto her side again. Why on earth was it so hot and stuffy? Had she remembered to readjust the temperature of the air conditioner?
Just about the time she’d decided that no, she hadn’t readjusted the air conditioner thermostat and she’d have to get up and adjust it, she suddenly froze. A second later, she sat straight up in bed.
“That’s it!” she cried. “The pearl necklace—that has to be the answer.” In the darkened room she grinned. She’d been obsessing about Angel’s fingerprints on the letter opener being smeared. But it didn’t matter whether her fingerprints were smeared or not, now that she’d figured it out. What was it that Heather had told her on that very first day?
“We always keep duplicates of a major prop in case they have to shoot the scene over.”
Yep, that was it, and that meant that at least two other identical letter openers existed besides the one found by Nick’s body.
Excitement thrummed through Charlotte. The killer could easily have stabbed Nick with one of the other letter openers, and then carefully smeared blood on the one that Angel had used in the scene shot the day before Nick’s body had been discovered and placed it beside Nick’s body. Just like in the movies, the killer had set up his scene.
She’d been so worried about telling the detective about Angel using the letter opener in the scene the day before the murder that she’d completely forgotten to tell him about the identical props…and evidently, no one else had thought to tell him as well.
What was that old saying? Something about things are seldom what they seem. What she needed to do now was locate those other letter openers.
Yeah, right. What makes you think that the police are going to just let you waltz into Bitsy’s house and snoop around?
“Good point,” Charlotte whispered as she slipped out of bed and headed for the thermostat located in the living room to check the temperature.
While it was true that the police wouldn’t let her snoop around their crime scene, there were still other ways to find out what happened to the duplicate letter openers without setting a foot on the property. She could ask Dalton the prop manager. Surely he would know, since taking care of the props was his job. And Benny would know how to get in touch with Dalton, since she never had been told Dalton’s last name.
But what if Dalton is the killer?
Charlotte swallowed hard. Who better would know how to manipulate the props?
Probably anyone who worked around the set, she decided. Then, a moment later, she shook her head. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of any reason Dalton could have to kill Nick and set Angel up to take the blame. Evidently, neither could Benny, since Dalton had never been mentioned when they had made up their list of possible suspects.
“Hmm, better talk to Benny about Dalton first,” she murmured. “Just to be safe,” she added.
Even without consulting Dalton, though, there was still another alternative. Calling Judith was out of the question, but though it really galled her to think about it, she could always call Detective Gavin Brown and tell him about the duplicates. After all, it was his case. Whether he would do anything about it was anybody’s guess, but he had told her to call him if she thought of anything else. Well, she had thought of something else, and it was a doozy.
In the living room, Charlotte squinted at the thermostat. Sure enough, she had neglected to readjust it. After resetting it to seventy-five degrees, she glanced over at Sweety Boy’s cage and decided that, with the cooler temperature, she should really cover the little bird’s cage. “Just for tonight, Boy,” she told him as she slipped the cover over his cage. “Wouldn’t want you to get cold.”
Satisfied that the little parakeet would be protected, she headed back to the bedroom, back to bed.
Only problem, once back in bed Charlotte tossed and turned. No matter what position she tried, she couldn’t seem to get comfortable, nor could she relax enough to fall asleep.
Throughout the seemingly endless night of tossing and turning, the last thing she remembered hearing was the clock in the living room cuckooing twice.
Charlotte! Charlotte, Wake Up.
Still half asleep, Charlotte wondered why in the world she was dreaming about Louis. Whatever the reason, the dream was aggravating her. All she wanted was to keep sleeping.
Charlotte!
There it was again, she thought sleepily. “Go away,” she groaned. The words had barely passed her lips when she suddenly realized, this was no dream. Louis was there. In her bedroom. But how? And more to the point, why?
Chapter 15
Charlotte snapped open her eyes just as Louis reached out towards her. “Louis!”
Louis jerked his hand back; then, with a grim, foreboding expression, he crossed his arms against his chest and glared down at her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as she grabbed the covers and pulled them up to her chin. “How—how did you get inside my house?”
“I did knock first,” he retorted, his tone not the least bit apologetic. “Several times,” he added. “And loudly.”
“Well, you don’t have to be so snippy about it. Once again, what are you doing in my house?”
Louis’s eyes narrowed. “Just get up. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
Whether she was simply nervous or still in shock, hearing Louis say the same thing she’d thought the night before, minus the fake Cuban accent, made her giggle.
Louis’s mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “I’m glad you find this funny. Frankly, I don’t see anything funny about any of it. Now get your butt out of bed before I drag you out.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she shot back.
“Try me,” he warned. For several moments more, he continued to glare at her. Then, without a word, he suddenly did an about-face and marched out of the bedroom.
Charlotte stared at the empty doorway. She should be angry. No, not just angry, but furious. So why wasn’t she?
With a shrug, she threw the covers aside. Probably because she trusted him and knew he would never knowingly do her harm. And probably, on some level, she was still feeling guilty about that awful phone call on Sunday. Then again, it was still early, and having been so rudely awakened, she couldn’t think straight. She licked her dry lips. What she needed was coffee, lots of coffee. A good jolt of caffeine always went a long way in helping her think straight.
“Hey, Louis,” she yelled out. “The least you could do is make a pot of coffee. Three heaping scoops to a twelve-cup pot.” She slid to the edge of the bed and reached for her housecoat draped across the footboard. He never had answered her question. “Probably on purpose,” she muttered. “Definitely on purpose,” she added. He knew good and well that not answering would make her curious enough to get up…which was what he wanted in the first place.
So just how had he gotten inside her house without a key? To open that deadbolt from outside required a key. She’d never given him one, and she’d removed the extra one from the flowerbed, especially after what had happened the previous November. Always before then, she’d left an extra key hidden in the front flower bed. Mostly only her family and a couple of friends, including Louis, knew about the key. After Joyce’s murder, though, she had decided that leaving an extra key hidden outside was just asking for trouble.
Charlotte frowned as she shoved her arm into the sleeve of the housecoat. Now that she thought about it, had the police ever returned her missing key? Then she r
emembered. They had returned the key, but after the incident with Joyce she’d had a locksmith change all of her locks.
Charlotte paused, her housecoat half on and half off. “That’s it,” she murmured. More than likely, that’s why Louis had a key. She’d had to work the day the locksmith came and had asked Louis to be there while the locks were being changed. He’d probably kept a spare key for himself.
Again, she should be angry, she thought, and again, for some strange reason, she wasn’t. “Whatever,” she muttered, as she finished pulling on the housecoat and belted it. He’d eventually tell her how he got in and why.
Slipping into her moccasins, she headed for the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and her hair. Forget the makeup, she decided, peering at her face in the bathroom mirror. “What you see is what you get,” she muttered, thinking of Louis. Besides, putting on makeup would be just a bit too obvious. She sure didn’t want to give Louis the idea that she was primping for him.
Why not?
Charlotte chose to ignore the irritating voice in her head, and with one last look in the mirror, she stepped out of the bathroom.
Suddenly, the ring of the phone broke the silence. Though she was tempted to ignore it as well, at the last minute she changed her mind. With a grimace, she hurried to the living room and snatched up the receiver.
“Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
“Are you okay, Mom?”
Hank. Uh-oh.
“Where in the devil have you been?” he demanded without giving her time to reply. “And why haven’t you been answering the phone?”
“I’m fine, son. My goodness, I wasn’t gone but a couple of days.”
“Gone where?” he retorted.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted into the living room, and Charlotte’s mouth watered. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, and I promise I’ll explain everything, but I’ll have to explain later, okay? Right now, I really, really need a cup of coffee first. And I have company.”
“Company? At this time in the morning?”
“It’s just Louis.”
“And what’s Louis doing there this early?”
From Hank’s insinuating tone, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Well, he could just think again. Her love life, or lack of it, was no one’s business but her own. Time to nip that in the bud. “That’s just what I’m about to find out,” she replied. “Thanks again for your concern, and I promise I’ll call you later. Love you.” Charlotte quickly hung up the receiver and sighed. For Pete’s sake, why was everyone in such an uproar? You’d think that she’d been gone for weeks instead of just a couple of days.
“And what’s Louis doing there this early?”
Charlotte suddenly grinned. Unlike Madeline, at least her son didn’t think she was too old. With a shake of her head, she walked into the kitchen. Louis was already seated at the table with a cup of coffee. In front of him was the newspaper…her newspaper.
“That was Hank on the phone,” she told him. “He wanted to know what you were doing here so early in the morning.” When Louis simply shrugged and continued reading the newspaper, she said, “Thanks for getting in my newspaper and for making coffee.” When he still remained silent, she rolled her eyes and turned to pour herself a cup.
Only once she was finally seated in front of him on the opposite side of the table did he carefully fold the newspaper, and lift his gaze to stare at her. For several moments, he said nothing, but continued staring at her with a troubled but resigned expression on his face. Finally, with a deep sigh, he said, “Look, I don’t know what the deuce is going on or where you’ve been, but I’d be willing to wager a month’s pay it has something to do with the Nick Franklin murder. Am I right?”
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “So what?”
“So what?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Just where in the devil have you been the last two days, and why haven’t you answered anyone’s phone calls? Oh, and one more thing. What was all that about when we did talk on Sunday?” When Charlotte didn’t offer an explanation right away, he said, “Does this mean we’re going to play guessing games?”
Charlotte leveled a no-nonsense look at him. “Tell you what. I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”
“Your what?”
“My question.”
“Ask away.”
“I assume, since there are no broken windows, that you have a key to my house. Well, do you?”
“Do you have a key to my house?” he shot back, with a question of his own, a ploy that she suspected he was using to keep from answering her.
“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m your landlord. So, what’s your excuse?”
A slow grin pulled at his lips. “Guess I don’t have one. But to answer your question, yes, I have a key to your side of the house. I kept the extra key when the locksmith installed the new locks.”
It was just as she’d thought. When Charlotte continued to stare at him and didn’t say anything, he reached down inside his pants pocket and pulled out a key ring full of keys. Within seconds he’d worked one particular key off the key ring. He placed the key on the table, and with his forefinger, he pushed it across the table to her. “Feel better now?”
Her eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. With her own forefinger she slid the key back across the table to him. “You keep it. Just don’t make a habit of letting yourself in.”
“Sounds fair.” He picked up the key and slipped it back onto his key ring. “Now, my turn,” he drawled.
Feigning ignorance, she said, “Your turn? Does that mean that you want the extra key I have to your half of the house?”
“Just answer the questions.”
“Oh, all right. Where have I been? I went to Oakdale, Mississippi, for a couple of days to do some background research on Nick Franklin. Why didn’t I answer anyone’s phone calls? Because I turned my cell phone off and forgot to turn it back on.”
Louis waited several moments until it became obvious that she wasn’t going to answer his third question. “And that Sunday phone call?” he finally asked.
Charlotte stared down into her coffee cup. “I’m sorry about that.” She glanced up. “I was going to apologize, but I wanted to apologize in person instead of over the phone.”
Louis shrugged. “Just tell me one thing. What did I say to set you off?”
“It wasn’t so much what you said, but your attitude. It’s like—like, you don’t think I’ve got enough sense to come in out of the rain.” Charlotte swallowed hard. While she was at it, she might as well get it all out in the open. “I’m a grown woman, Louis. I’ve run my own business now for more years than I care to remember. A business—I might add—that’s paid the bills without help from anyone. And I raised a son, by myself, without his father or the help of family. I don’t like being treated like I’m an idiot. And I don’t like others trying to run my life for me.”
“By others, I suppose you mean me.”
Charlotte threw up her hands. “You, Hank, Judith—”
“It’s just because they love you and because you live alone.”
Did “they” include him?
Don’t even go there.
“Believe it or not,” Louis continued, “if I don’t check in with my son at least every other day, I get a lecture.”
A smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. “No way.”
Louis nodded. “Yes, way.” He paused; then, giving her a stern look, he said, “So—what have you got?”
Charlotte frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Nick Franklin murder. What did you find out?”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”
Louis sighed with exasperation. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I could help? After all, I was a police detective for a lot of years. And, evidently, for you to get involved means you believe that Angel Martinique is innocent. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but like it or not, I’ve learned that you’ve got pretty good i
nstincts about these things.”
What? A compliment? Charlotte’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Hard to believe” didn’t begin to describe her feelings.
“Close your mouth, Charlotte, before you catch flies.”
Charlotte snapped her mouth closed, and as wary excitement hummed through her veins, a sudden wave of weakness washed over her. Charlotte ignored the weak feeling for the moment. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as a heart attack. But start from the beginning. Sam filled me in on what she knew, but I want to know what you know.”
“Sam? As in Samantha O’Reilly, the security guard?” When Louis nodded, Charlotte frowned. “That reminds me, what on earth was that boss of yours thinking when he hired her? Why, she’s just a little bitty thing.”
“Don’t let her size fool you. I once saw her take down a man who outweighed her by a good hundred pounds. She’s a tough cookie, but stick to the subject—what do you know?” Louis suddenly frowned. “Hey, are you okay? You look a little pale and a bit green around the gills.”
Another wave of weakness washed through her. “I’m okay. Just a bit weak and need to check my blood sugar level and eat a bite.”
“The diabetes?”
Charlotte nodded, then asked, “Have you had breakfast yet?”
He shook his head. “I came straight from the airport, and I’ve got to leave again to catch the noon flight back to Houston.”
“Why so soon?” Or better yet, why come back home at all? She thought…unless…unless she’d been right and he’d made a turnaround trip just to check up on her.
Louis shook his head. “Never mind that, for now. Just take care of yourself. What can I do to help?”
“If you could just hand me that little blue bag on the counter and get me a glass of orange juice, the juice will hold me until breakfast.”
Once Louis handed her the blue bag, she unzipped it, and after removing the items she needed, she checked her blood sugar. Just as she’d thought, it was way too low.
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