Death Tidies Up Read online

  By the time she’d applied a bit of makeup, she felt somewhat better and a little more in control. When she returned to the kitchen, Louis was seated at the table staring out the back window. He’d already poured them each a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, and the smell was heavenly.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself,” he told her as she sat down opposite him.

  Charlotte started to shake her head but winced when a sharp pain shot through the side of her neck. “No, not at all,” she finally told him with a dismissive wave of her hand once the pain subsided.

  “What you need for that crick is a good massage,” he told her, and before she realized his intentions or could protest, he had shoved out of his chair and was standing behind her.

  The touch of his warm hands on her neck was a shock at first, and she went still even as her senses leaped to life.

  “No, now don’t tense up,” he told her. “Just relax and drink your coffee.”

  Relax? Yeah, right, she thought as the palms of his hands slid against her skin while his thumbs gently but firmly kneaded the sore muscles in the side of her neck.

  She should probably protest. She really should. But at the moment she was still too stunned to utter a sound, and there was no way on God’s green earth that she could casually sit there and drink coffee while he was doing such delicious things to her stiff neck.

  How long had it been since she’d experienced a man’s hands on her? she wondered, relaxing somewhat in spite of herself. Too long, she decided as an unexpected warmth surged through her when his forefingers brushed just below her earlobes.

  “You’re tensing up again,” he warned as his fingers slipped down to just beneath the top edge of her pajamas and housecoat to knead the top of her shoulders as well.

  A part of her wanted to relax, and she tried. She really tried. But that other part of her, the sensible, practical part, kept whispering all the reasons she shouldn’t.

  Then suddenly, it was no longer even an issue. “There now,” he said, with one last, warm squeeze before he withdrew his hands. “That should feel better.”

  Almost as quickly as it had begun, it had ended, and within moments, he was once again seated across the table from her.

  All Charlotte could do was stare at him while her cheeks burned and her thick tongue refused to function. Ridiculous, she thought. This is ridiculous. In a few days she would be sixty years old, and here she was, acting like the worst cliché of a simpering virgin just because a man had touched her intimately.

  “Ah—th-thanks,” she finally blurted out as she slowly rotated her head from side to side. “That does feel a lot better.”

  “You’re welcome,” he told her. Then, as if he suspected how awkward the moment was for her, he pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket and got right down to business.

  “Why don’t we start from the beginning,” he suggested as he thumbed through the notebook. “Start from the time you first arrived—no, on second thought, start further back than that. On Friday night, when you did your walk-through, did you notice anything unusual or out of place then?”

  Charlotte’s throat suddenly went dry. Knowing Louis, he wasn’t going to be too pleased with her answer…if she told the truth. To give herself a moment to think about how she should answer, she took a slow sip of the still-warm coffee. By the time she finally set the cup down, she’d decided that there was no way around it, no choice but to tell the truth, straight out.

  “I meant to mention this Friday night during dinner,” she said. “And I started to—if you recall—but I got sidetracked when you began talking about Vince Roussel and his son, Todd. Once we got caught up in picking out all of that stuff for your house—” She shrugged. “I forgot about the Devilier house.”

  Louis never once interrupted her as she began explaining about all the signs she’d found that made her think that someone had been camping out in the old house. And throughout her explanation, he maintained a poker face that didn’t give her a clue as to his reaction to what she was telling him, one way or another.

  “I really meant to tell you,” she said when she had finished. “But—” She shrugged.

  “And I suppose you conveniently forgot to mention it again yesterday when Judith was questioning you.”

  The tone of his voice should have warned her, but Charlotte ignored it. “If you remember right,” she continued, “I was a bit upset yesterday, what with finding poor Drew’s body and all. Then, after I fainted, I—”

  Suddenly, without warning, Louis slammed his fist against the table so hard that coffee sloshed over the edge of the cups. “Poor Drew, my hind foot!” he roared. “I can’t believe this crap! Of all the asinine stunts you’ve pulled, this one takes the cake.” He leaned menacingly across the table. “Did it ever occur to you even once that after finding that stuff on Friday night, going back in there by yourself on Saturday might have been dangerous? And what about poor Drew?” He spat the words out as if they were bitterly foul. “Maybe, just maybe, if you had mentioned this stuff on Friday night, then poor Drew might still be alive instead of dead meat on a slab at the morgue?”

  All Charlotte could do was stare at him in stunned disbelief. She’d expected him to be upset that she hadn’t told him what she’d found. And she was both gratified and annoyed that he was concerned with her safety, but the very idea that she was somehow responsible for…

  Shock quickly yielded to fury, and she jumped to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered. “How dare you sit there and say such things to me! And how dare you insinuate that Drew Bergeron’s death is my fault.”

  “Sit down, Charlotte!” he warned in a no-nonsense tone.

  “I will not sit down. You owe me an apology, and either you apologize or you can get out of my house right this minute.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I—I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what?” Louis shot back. “Call the police?”

  Long seconds ticked by as Charlotte tried, and failed, to come up with a response. Then, from the doorway, an unexpected voice suddenly intruded.

  “Hey, you guys!”

  Charlotte and Louis both turned to stare as Judith marched into the kitchen.

  “Did I hear someone say something about calling the police? And what’s all the shouting about? I could hear you two all the way out in the driveway.”

  “Detective Thibodeaux was just leaving,” Charlotte snapped as she marched over to the cabinet and yanked a paper towel off the towel rack beside the sink.

  “No, Detective Thibodeaux was not just leaving,” Louis drawled. “Detective Thibodeaux was just fix’n to apologize to your aunt for being so rude and disrespectful and losing his temper. But your aunt did a very foolish thing.”

  “Yeah, so I gathered from the parts I heard,” Judith replied. “In fact, the whole neighborhood probably heard it.” She turned to Charlotte. “Well?” she asked. “Is he leaving or staying? Whichever, I would love to have a cup of that coffee.”

  “What are you doing here?” Charlotte asked, ignoring her niece’s question as she blotted up the coffee off the table.

  “I came to offer you a ride to church.” Judith looked pointedly at Charlotte’s housecoat. “But since you’re obviously not dressed yet, I don’t think we’re going to make it on time.”

  “Don’t blame me.” Charlotte turned to glare at Louis. “It’s all his fault.”

  “She’s right,” Louis said. “I came over to ask her some questions and—well—I guess things sort of got out of hand.” He slid his gaze to Charlotte. “Again, I apologize.”

  Charlotte stiffened. “As well you should,” she retorted.

  “Don’t push it, Charlotte,” he warned.

  She wanted to say more, was tempted to really give him a piece of her mind. But what good would it do? After all, he had apologized. Now all that was left was to either back down gracefully or come off looking l
ike a shrew.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, this is ridiculous.” She motioned at Judith. “Sit down, and I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “I guess this means that you’re not going to tell me what started the squabble to begin with?”

  “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  Judith stared at her a moment too long, then a tiny smile pulled at her lips as she shook her head. “Have it your way, Auntie,” she said as she seated herself at the table. “I’m sure Lou will fill me in. And no, I haven’t had breakfast yet. No time,” she added. “Actually, I’m still working on the Bergeron murder. I intended on dropping you off at church, then I was going to come back here and see if I could pick Lou’s brain. I figured that after the service, you could catch a ride with either Mother or Hank to her house.”

  Charlotte deposited the paper towel in the trash. “It won’t take but a minute to fix some eggs and toast, and since it’s too late to go to church—” She shot Louis a quick accusatory glare. “You can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. You can eat and talk to Detective Thibodeaux at the same time.”

  Charlotte started toward the pantry, but after a couple of steps, she paused. “Oh, and by the way.” She turned and gave Judith a knowing look. “Offering me a ride was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but let’s get one thing straight. In spite of what you and my son think, one little fainting spell does not mean I need chauffeuring around. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself anywhere I need to go. And one more thing, while I’m at it.” She turned to glare at Louis again. “Though I appreciate your concern for my safety, Detective Thibodeaux, I’ve been looking out for myself a long time now, and I’m perfectly capable of knowing what’s safe and what’s not safe.”

  Louis’ response was a grunt that indicated otherwise. Then, he leaned toward Judith. “Well, I guess she told us.”

  Judith nodded gravely. “She always has been a bit on the stubborn side.”

  Charlotte simply shook her head in annoyance and busied herself gathering the ingredients she needed from the pantry and the refrigerator for the impromptu breakfast.

  Eavesdropping was not something Charlotte ordinarily approved of, but as she prepared the food, there was no way she could ignore the conversation between Judith and Louis.

  “So, little girl,” Louis asked, “where’s that hotshot partner of yours this morning?”

  “Don’t start that with me, Lou,” Judith warned. “But if you must know, he’s back at the precinct, going over the reports from the crime scene.”

  There it was again, Charlotte thought as she cracked the last of a half a dozen eggs, dumped the yolk and egg white into the bowl, then poured in a dollop of milk. Why the contempt every time Louis mentioned Judith’s new partner? she wondered as she added a dash of salt and pepper, then began beating the mixture with a fork. What was wrong with Will Richeaux? What had he done that would cause Louis to be so hostile?

  Making a mental note to question Judith about it later, she dropped a glob of butter into the skillet she had heating on the stove burner.

  By the time she had the eggs and toast ready and had set the table, Charlotte had learned that Drew Bergeron was killed by a single gunshot to the forehead, execution style. The gun used was a twenty-two caliber. Since, according to Louis, it was the type of gun that could be bought just about anywhere, it would be almost impossible to trace.

  But what Judith seemed most interested in was Louis’ impressions as to why Drew Bergeron would have been in town to begin with, especially after going to all the trouble of faking his own death.

  “He had to have known he would be recognized by someone,” Judith said. “Surely he wasn’t that stupid.”

  “That I can’t say,” Louis told her. “All depends on if and why he faked his first death to begin with. Have you talked to his wife yet?”

  Judith shook her head. “I wanted to talk to you first, then I’m heading over there. And I have to say, that’s one chore I’m not looking forward to.”

  At the mention of Katherine Bergeron, Charlotte felt her chest grow heavy with pity. She couldn’t begin to imagine how it would feel to have to cope with something like that.

  “Well, there could be all kinds of reasons he showed up here again,” Louis told Judith, “but it would be a safe bet to put money at the top of the list as the number-one reason. Seems like it always boils down to money.”

  When Charlotte placed the food on the table, Judith got up to refill everyone’s coffee cup.

  Once Judith was seated again, she continued her questions. “So, yesterday you said you recognized Bergeron because you’d had dealings with him, Lou. What kind of dealings?”

  “Way back when,” he told her as he spooned a generous helping of eggs on his plate, “before his first so-called death, it was rumored that Bergeron was connected with Vince Roussel’s crowd. I was investigating a murder that involved one of Roussel’s crew at the time—a muscle-bound lowlife that we suspected of being Roussel’s enforcer. We’d found this lowlife’s body floating in the river. At first we figured that he’d crossed Roussel, and Roussel killed him.

  “Anyway—the lowlife had been seen with Bergeron the day before he was killed, so”—Louis shrugged—“I questioned Bergeron. According to what he told me, his only connection to Roussel had to do with a so-called business deal, a real estate venture on the North Shore. He claimed he and Roussel’s enforcer just met by coincidence. What he didn’t tell me and what I learned later was that his deal fell through and he owed Roussel a ton of money.”

  Judith chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast while Charlotte took a bite of her eggs.

  “Think that could have anything to do with why Bergeron might have faked his own death?” Judith finally asked. “From what I gathered, Vince Roussel isn’t someone you’d want to be in debt to.”

  Louis shrugged. “It’s a good place to start. Roussel could have sent the enforcer after Bergeron, and Bergeron offed him, then staged his own accident to get Roussel off his back. But of course there’s no way to prove it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  From what I gathered, Vince Roussel is not someone you would want to be in debt to.

  Judith’s words still haunted Charlotte long after her niece and Louis had left. As she pulled her van into an empty parking spot at her sister’s apartment complex, she wondered what, if anything, she could say or do to persuade Cheré that these people were not the kind that she should be associating with.

  Charlotte frowned at she climbed out of the van and locked it. She should have talked to Cheré yesterday about Todd Roussel, when she had the chance.

  So why didn’t you?

  An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she walked toward her sister’s apartment, and her footsteps slowed. She’d forgotten. Plain and simple, it had completely slipped her mind. Oh, it was easy enough to excuse her lapse of memory, what with everything that had happened at the Devilier house. But this wasn’t the first time that she’d forgotten something important lately. There had been other instances over the past few weeks, other tiny details that she’d overlooked.

  First the forgetfulness, then the fainting spell. Were Judith and Hank right? Could something be wrong with her?

  Charlotte took a deep breath, then released it with a heavy sigh…. just because you’re turning sixty doesn’t mean you’re that old yet…

  Though Charlotte didn’t usually put much stock in anything her sister said, for once, Madeline was right, she decided. Sixty wasn’t really that old, and it certainly didn’t automatically mean she was going senile. Not yet. And there was no use worrying about any of it anyway. Worrying was counterproductive and wouldn’t change anything. If and when she found out there was something wrong with her, then she’d do whatever had to be done to cope with it. She always had.

  Charlotte raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she got the chance.

  “I was watching for you through the window,” her son explai
ned as he reached out and pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. Charlotte breathed in the scent of him and smiled. He was wearing the cologne she’d bought him for his birthday, a brand that smelled similar to the one she’d once given his father so many years ago.

  When Hank pulled away, he said, “I missed you at church. How are you feeling today? Any more fainting spells?”

  Patience, she reminded herself as she looked up at him. Patience is a virtue. Besides, Hank’s concern was because he loved her. She smiled. “I’m fine, hon,” she told him, patting his freshly shaved cheek.

  A tall and lean man, her son had piercing blue eyes and sandy-colored hair with just a hint of gray at the temples. Just the sight of him filled her to overflowing with a mother’s pride, and there were times, like now, when he so resembled his father that it took her breath away.

  Charlotte felt her eyes grow misty and her throat tighten. Oh, how she wished her son and his father could have known each other, had wished it a thousand times. She’d often wondered if it would have made a difference if Hank Senior had known he’d fathered a son. Many a lonely night she’d thought that he might have tried harder to stay alive if he’d known.

  But he hadn’t known. There hadn’t been time to tell him. Instead, he’d died, just one of the many first casualties of a war in Southeast Asia that should never have been fought to begin with.

  Charlotte swallowed hard and shoved the painful memories back into that tiny compartment of her mind reserved for those she’d loved and lost.

  Clearing her throat, she asked, “Who all’s here?” She peeped around his shoulder. “Did Carol come with you?”

  A slim, attractive woman with warm brown eyes suddenly appeared in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the small living room. “Yes, I’m here, Charlotte,” she called out.

  Carol Jones was a nurse whom Hank had been seeing for several months, and Charlotte had high hopes that any day now, Hank would announce their engagement and impending marriage. Unlike her son’s ex-wife, Mindy, Carol was a generous, caring woman who was sensible as well as practical, all traits that strongly appealed to Charlotte. And, in Charlotte’s opinion, Carol was the best shot she had of ever becoming a grandmother. Carol loved children.