Dusted to Death Read online

  As she eased down on the landing and leaned against the wall, below her, doors opened and closed, and occasionally, she caught a glimpse of someone hurrying past the foot of the stairwell. Then, a voice cried, “Quiet on the set,” followed by, “Cameras, action.” After several moments she heard the distinct rattle of dishes and concluded that the first scene was probably being shot in the dining room.

  By her estimation, at least twenty more minutes passed before Angel finally emerged from her dressing room, only this Angel didn’t bear a whole lot of resemblance to the one that had entered the room earlier.

  Gone were the jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and gone was the mop of flyaway hair. Instead, Angel was dressed in a standard Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform and resembled the sweet, girl-next-door image that she portrayed in all of her movies.

  Charlotte got to her feet just as Angel and Toby hurried past her. Neither said a word nor offered a smile, and within seconds, they both disappeared down the stairs.

  “Ms. LaRue?”

  Charlotte turned to see Heather standing in the doorway of the dressing room. Smiling, she said, “Please, just call me Charlotte.”

  “Okay.” Heather motioned for Charlotte to come closer. “I only have a moment, but I wanted to fill you in on Angel’s rules.”

  “Her rules?” Charlotte followed Heather back inside the dressing room.

  Heather nodded. “Angel is a very private person,” she told Charlotte, “and there are certain things that no one but Toby is allowed to touch—that’s rule number one.” She walked over to the chaise longue and motioned toward a small object near a throw pillow. “That’s one of them.”

  The object turned out to be a small, well-worn stuffed animal, a bulldog wearing what appeared to be a school sweater. On the sweater, embroidered in tiny print, were the words OAKDALE BULLDOGS.

  “Angel is a little superstitious and calls it her good-luck charm,” Heather explained. And this is another one of her do-not-touch items.” She pointed toward a framed picture that had been placed on the dressing table.

  In the eight-by-ten framed picture was a young girl with an older couple, and they were standing in front of what appeared to be a small country church.

  “Also,” Heather continued, “Angel is very particular about her drinking water.” She motioned toward the cases of bottled water. “No one touches her water supply. It’s a special brand she has flown in from the Swiss Alps.” She turned to face Charlotte. “Rule number two. With only the exception of certain people, no one else gets inside Angel’s dressing room. Those certain people include Toby Russell, her bodyguard, of course, and Nick Franklin—when he’s on good behavior, that is,” she added. “There’s also Andre Dubois, Angel’s personal chef, Simon Clark, her manager, Max Morris, the director, and Dalton.” Heather grinned. “And now you.”

  Yeah, me, Charlotte thought, wondering if there had been some kind of mix-up. Surely, they didn’t think that she’d been hired to be Angel’s personal maid. “Ah, Heather, just so there’s no misunderstanding, I was told that I was being hired to keep Mrs. Duhè’s house clean during the shooting.”

  “Oh, sure—you were—but that also includes Angel’s dressing room. Oh, and there’s one other person I forgot to mention—Angel’s chauffeur, Benny Jackson.”

  Charlotte frowned in thought. She’d heard that name before.

  “Is something wrong?” Heather asked.

  Charlotte shook her head and gave her a brief smile. “No. It’s just that the chauffeur’s name sounds familiar.” It was right on the cusp of her memory.

  “Benny’s a sweetheart, and if I remember right, he’s originally from New Orleans.”

  Like a streak of lightning, it suddenly hit Charlotte why she knew that name. “No way,” she murmured. After all, what were the odds?

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Sorry, I have a bad habit of talking to myself sometimes. I was just wondering what the odds were that Angel’s chauffeur could be the same Benny Jackson who was once friends with my son, Hank, when they were still teenagers.”

  Heather shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this Benny Jackson?”

  Heather thought a moment, then said, “I’d say he’s in his early forties.”

  Even with Heather confirming that the chauffeur was about the right age, Charlotte still had doubts that he could be the same person she’d known. The Benny Jackson that she’d known had been a troubled teenager who had come from a family known for their run-ins with the law. Considering his family background, she’d be surprised if he hadn’t ended up in prison…or in the graveyard.

  “Well, I guess that’s about it,” Heather said, interrupting Charlotte’s thoughts. “If you have any questions, please feel free to ask me or Dalton.” She reached up and lightly smoothed her fingers over her cheek.

  Ordinarily, the hand motion wouldn’t have attracted Charlotte’s attention, but since she’d already noticed that Heather’s cheek was swollen, she figured that Heather had to be checking for more swelling. Should she say something or not? If she said something, she risked being told to mind her own business, but if she didn’t say anything and something happened to Heather…

  While Heather gathered up several beauty items and placed them in a small makeup carrier that resembled a tackle box, a battle waged within Charlotte.

  “If you’ll excuse me now,” Heather murmured, “I should probably go down and check on Angel’s makeup.”

  Say something. Say something now.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Heather, before you go, I do have a question.”

  Heather paused and stared expectantly at Charlotte.

  “How did you get that bruise?”

  Heather’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to cover her upper cheekbone. Whirling around, she leaned in close to the mirror, searching her reflection for any sign of the bruise. Seemingly satisfied, she faced Charlotte. “I have to tell you that I pride myself on being a professional makeup artist. So how did you know that I have a bruise?”

  “You can cover up a bruise,” Charlotte told her gently, “but not the swelling. And unfortunately, I’ve seen this type of thing before. Oh, you did an excellent job covering the bruise, all right, but that’s not really the bottom line here. The bottom line is, who’s been hitting you?”

  “Why would you think anyone has been hitting me? For all you know, I could have run into a door or something. Besides, I don’t see that it’s any of your business, one way or another.”

  “No, it probably isn’t, but like I said, I’ve seen it before, and if you believe nothing else, please believe that nothing good comes out of an abusive relationship.” Though it was possible that she was wrong, Charlotte didn’t think so, especially considering Heather’s defensive tone. “Heather, no one, but no one, has a right to hit you.”

  Heather stared at her for a moment, as if pondering what to say next; then her eyes filled with tears. “He—he doesn’t m-mean to. He just has a bad temper.”

  Charlotte was on the verge of asking who “he” was when someone near the stairs yelled out Heather’s name.

  Blinking back the tears, Heather sniffed. “Coming,” she yelled back. With a wary, haunted look at Charlotte, she said, “I’ve got to go.” She took one last glance at the dressing table, then froze. “Oh, no, I completely forgot,” she groaned. She picked up a black velvet jewelry box off the dressing table, hesitated, and then faced Charlotte. “Could you do me a huge favor?”

  “Sure, I’ll try.”

  Heather handed Charlotte the box. “Make sure that Dalton gets this. It’s the duplicate pearl necklaces for the next scene,” she explained. “I was supposed to give them to Dalton earlier, but forgot.” She motioned for Charlotte to follow her and headed out the door.

  As they walked down the hallway toward the stairs, Heather said, “FYI, we always keep duplicates of a major prop in case t
hey have to shoot the scene over. In the upcoming scene the necklace will be broken when Hunter yanks it off Angel during an argument. According to the script, it’s a necklace that Hunter’s character had given his wife, and Angel’s character had taken it without his permission.”

  By the end of shooting that first day, Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. The only thing she knew for certain was that every bone in her body ached, and if she had to go up or down those stairs one more time, she’d have to crawl. No one had bothered to warn her that, in addition to cleaning up after everyone involved in the shooting, she would be everyone’s gofer as well. It seemed like every five minutes, someone was yelling for her to do something.

  Unlike the freezing temperature inside the house, outside the sun beat down, and the hot air was so heavy with humidity that taking a deep breath was an effort. In the time it took to walk to her van, sweat had beaded on her upper lip, and the hair at the nape of her neck was wringing wet.

  Just as she clicked the remote to unlock her van, she glanced in the side mirror and saw a man approaching her from behind. Something about the man made her immediately wary and she quickly glanced around to make sure she wasn’t alone.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out. “Could I talk to you just a minute?”

  Her instincts said to ignore him, to just get inside her van, lock the doors, and go home. But was it instinct or was it just leftover fear from the frightening incident that had happened to her last October? Probably a bit of both, she decided, but unlike that other time, this man looked to be only armed with a small spiral notebook and pen instead of a gun. And instead of being caught after dark in a deserted parking lot, she was out in the broad daylight with plenty of people within hollering range.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte turned to face the man. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  “Ma’am, my name is Bruce King. I’m a writer—Angel’s biographer, in fact.” He laughed. “And no, I’m not related to the famous Stephen King.”

  Yeah, you wish, she thought, not finding his silly attempt at humor the least bit funny. “Like I said, what do you want?”

  “Your name is Charlotte, isn’t it? Charlotte LaRue?”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “And just how do you know my name?”

  The smarmy man laughed again. “Like I said, I’m Angel’s biographer, so I know everything about what goes on when it concerns Angel.”

  Charlotte bit her tongue. If he knew “everything,” then why did he need to talk to her, a mere maid? And another thing, no one had mentioned anything to her about Angel having a biographer. Besides, if he were the real deal, wouldn’t he have been hanging out inside the house instead of accosting the maid outside? Humph! More than likely, he was lying through his teeth and was probably one of those sleazy tabloid reporters.

  “For instance,” he continued, tilting his head closer as if they were about to share a secret, “I heard that Angel and Nick had a knock-down, drag-out about that new script that Simon wants her to read.” He shook his head. “Poor Nick. He might be Angel’s main squeeze for the moment, but Simon should know better than to think he could influence Angel by using Nick.”

  Main squeeze? Interesting term, she thought, but not one she’d likely use.

  “So, did Angel throw anything at him this time?”

  Warning bells of suspicion clanged louder in Charlotte’s head. Enough was enough. “Listen, mister, Angel’s relationships, good or bad, are none of my business. And they’re certainly none of your business. You’re no more her biographer than I’m the Queen of England.”

  Totally ignoring her accusation, he said, “Hey, I’m just trying to authenticate my facts here. I may be a lot of things, but I don’t make up the stuff that I write. I’m a stickler for the truth.”

  When Charlotte narrowed her eyes accusingly and tilted her head to one side, a red flush tinged his cheeks. “Well, I am,” he quickly added. “No matter what, I make sure that my writing is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “Yeah, right.” Charlotte turned away. Why was she even listening to this goofball?

  “Hey, I’ll prove it!” He quickly stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her path to the van’s door. “In one of Angel’s recent press releases, it said that she grew up in Atlanta, Georgia.” He shook his head. “Not true. I did a little research of my own, and there’s no record of her ever living there. In fact, there’s only five other women in the whole U.S.A. named Angel Martinique, and none of them fit our Angel’s description or age.”

  He waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know Angel is probably just a stage name, but most times, an actor’s real name surfaces at some point.” He shook his head. “Not this time, though, and believe me, I’ve been doing some digging. What I’m after is her real name. And I’d gladly pay someone—pay you—for any information that you could find out.” He paused for a moment. “So, how about it?”

  “How about what?” Charlotte shot back.

  “How about helping me out here? See what you can find out? I’d make it worth your while.”

  Enough was enough. “Tell you what I will do,” she said between clenched teeth. “If you move out of my way and leave now, I won’t call those security guards over there.” She motioned to where two of the guards were standing near the roadblocks. “But!” She pointed at him with her forefinger. “One more word and I’ll start screaming my head off.” He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Not a word! Now get out of here before I lose the little patience I have left.”

  To give the man credit, after only a brief moment he threw up his hands in surrender and backed off.

  Charlotte quickly loaded up her supply carrier, got inside the van, and hit the automatic door lock mechanism. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. The man hadn’t moved. He was still standing where she’d left him.

  Though traffic wasn’t light, it wasn’t bumper-to-bumper either. The first thing that Charlotte noticed when she pulled into her driveway was Louis standing on the front porch. The next thing she noticed was his suitcase beside the post nearest the steps. Another trip? So soon?

  She slid out of the van and, pasting a smile on her face, headed for the steps. “Going somewhere?”

  Louis nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t want to leave without letting you know.”

  Since when did he feel that he had to check in and out with her before he went somewhere? She certainly didn’t feel that way. Besides, he could have left a note.

  Charlotte trudged up the steps and winced as each step sent a sharp pain through her knee.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that a couple of Tylenol and a soak in a tub of hot water won’t cure. Too much climbing stairs today.” Not one to complain to others, Charlotte changed the subject. “So, where to this time?” She motioned at the suitcase, then walked over and unlocked her front door.

  “Back to Houston. For several days this time.”

  Still wondering why he thought he had to wait for her, she faced him and nodded. “Well, have a good trip.” She twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

  “Wait up a minute, Charlotte.”

  Hesitating a moment and getting more irritated by the second, she finally pulled the door closed and faced him again. “What?”

  Several seconds passed, and still he said nothing.

  “Look, I’ve had a long day and I’m tired, so please, whatever it is, just spit it out.”

  “We need to talk. Have a serious talk,” he emphasized.

  “So, talk, for Pete’s sake.”

  He shook his head. “Not here and not now. I have to get on the road and I can see that you’re in no mood to listen. But when I get back—”

  “Okay. Fine. When you get back, we’ll talk. Now, may I go inside?”

  For an answer, Louis waved his hand, then picked up his suitcase. Unlike the last time he’d left, she didn’t wait around, nor did he try
to kiss her.

  “Fine with me,” she grumbled as she locked the front door behind her. “Everything’s just peachy.”

  Only later that night, once she was in bed, did she wonder what in the world he’d meant by “serious.”

  Chapter 3

  Early on Tuesday morning, Charlotte headed up the staircase at Bitsy’s house. In her hand was a sheaf of papers that had script changes that she’d been told to give Angel. Halfway up the stairs she froze as the sudden sounds of screaming and cursing spiraled down. Angel’s voice, easily recognizable, screaming accusations. And a man’s voice yelling back. Possibly Nick, the boyfriend?

  Charlotte winced; if ears could really burn from hearing profanity, hers would be smoldering stubs for sure.

  What to do? What to do? She glanced down the staircase to the first floor where people were scurrying about. The only sign that anyone else was even paying attention was the occasional furtive look cast upward where she was standing.

  Wasn’t anybody going to do anything?

  Guess not, she finally decided, but somebody needed to do something. From the sound of things, the argument was escalating fast.

  With a resigned sigh and a shake of her head, she trudged up the stairs. If they were still going at it by the time she reached the second floor, then she’d…

  What? Just what do you think you can do? Besides, it’s none of your business.

  Momentarily ignoring the voice of reason in her head, she kept climbing the stairs. At the second-floor landing, she froze again. Just down the hallway, standing outside the door to Angel’s dressing room, was her bodyguard, Toby, Mr. Clean himself, his arms crossed and a bored look on his stoic face.

  For Pete’s sake, why was he just standing there? Of all people, shouldn’t he be doing something? Wasn’t his job to protect Angel?

  Charlotte’s hand tightened around the script. More to the point at the moment, what should she do?