Maid for Murder Read online

  Charlotte shook her head in denial, but before she could protest aloud, Jeanne suddenly emerged from the back parlor.

  “What’s going on out here, Charlotte?” she asked. “Who’s—” Jeanne froze, and her face clouded over with a look of pure distaste. “Why are these people back again?”

  All eyes had turned toward Jeanne, but Louis Thibodeaux was the one who spoke first. “Mrs. Dubuisson, I’m afraid you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Chapter Eight

  For long seconds, Jeanne simply stared at the detective and made no response.

  No matter what the implications, Charlotte refused to believe that Jeanne could have had anything to do with Jackson’s murder. She was sure that there had to be a rational explanation for the misunderstanding about the crime-scene tape.

  Louis Thibodeaux advanced menacingly toward Jeanne. “Why?” he asked, his eyes narrowing to dark slits. “Why would you purposely have that room cleaned when you knew we were coming back for one last look? Why—unless you have something to hide? What are you trying to cover up, Mrs. Dubuisson?”

  Charlotte had every intention of staying put to hear Jeanne’s explanation, but at that moment, Judith caught her eye. There was a look of warning on her niece’s face, and with a sharp jerk of her head toward the dining room, she indicated that Charlotte should make herself scarce.

  Feeling somewhat like a rat deserting the ship, Charlotte grudgingly left the foyer. She was almost to the kitchen before she heard Jeanne finally answer the detective.

  “No one said anything about coming back,” Jeanne told him, her voice cold and blunt. “Besides, I was told they were finished.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t remember—one of the officers.”

  “Which one?”

  In the kitchen, Charlotte hovered just inside the kitchen doorway. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of missing the ensuing argument between Jeanne and Judith’s partner.

  “There was no crime-scene tape.” Jeanne insisted. “And how many times do I have to tell you that no one told me I shouldn’t go in there.”

  Louis Thibodeaux’s voice was a low rumble, and Charlotte couldn’t make out exactly what he’d said in response, but she had no trouble hearing Jeanne’s shrill retort.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “No more questions, no more of your accusations, not without my lawyer.”

  From that point on, nothing but the sound of low murmurs came from the foyer. Unable to determine what was being said, Charlotte was almost ready to give up trying when she saw her niece appear around the corner, where the dining room opened onto the foyer, and stride purposefully toward her.

  When Judith reached the kitchen doorway, she took Charlotte firmly by the arm and led her farther into the kitchen. “You should go on home now, Aunt Charley,” she said, her voice low and urgent

  “But what about Jeanne? I think I should stay here until her lawyer comes.”

  Judith shook her head. “There’s no need. Her lawyer isn’t coming tonight. He’s instructed her not to answer any more questions until tomorrow morning, when he can meet her at the station.” She narrowed her eyes. “And get that stubborn look off your face, Auntie. Given the mood Thibodeaux’s in, I—well I don’t want to have to lock horns with him tonight over my aunt’s part in this fiasco. Someone screwed up royally, and heads are gonna roll over this one. I just don’t want it to be your head. And you know the old saying. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Charlotte wanted to argue but knew that Judith was only trying to protect her, and she certainly didn’t want to cause her niece any problems or have to deal with her rude partner. “I’ll leave,” she finally relented, “but only if you promise to call me later.”

  Judith shrugged. “I’ll try, Aunt Charley, but I really can’t promise. Oh, yeah, and another thing. If you haven’t already done so, for now—for the duration of this investigation—I’d just as soon you didn’t tell Mrs. Dubuisson that we’re related. Believe me, it’s better for everyone concerned if she doesn’t know.”

  Judith never did call that night. Charlotte finally crawled into bed and turned off the bedside lamp at around eleven. After an hour of tossing and turning, her four-poster bed began to feel like a torture chamber; she felt every lump in the old mattress. With a groan and a vow that just as soon as she got a few extra dollars, a new mattress was going to the top of her list of things to replace, she switched the lamp back on.

  She tried to read for a while, hoping that doing so would help relax her enough to sleep. But each time she grew drowsy and turned off the lamp, visions of the bloodstained desk, along with the argument between Jeanne and the detective, swam through her head.

  Reading about such things in mystery novels was one thing, but now, having actually experienced it, gave Charlotte a whole new appreciation for what her niece had to contend with on a day-by-day basis.

  And so it went throughout the long, restless night. Consequently, when her alarm finally jangled the following morning, her head ached, and she could barely open her eyes.

  Logic said that a good brisk walk would help clear her head. But Charlotte was in no mood for logic, and after hitting the snooze alarm twice, with a groan she finally forced herself to climb out of bed. By then there was barely enough time to dress, and she had to settle for a quick cup of instant coffee instead of waiting for a whole pot to brew.

  Because of the reporters still camped out in front of the house, Jeanne met Charlotte at the back door again. Charlotte noticed that in contrast to the night before, there was no rumpled look about Jeanne this morning; yet even though she was dressed impeccably, complete with flawless makeup, a navy silk suit, and every hair in place, there was a weariness about her eyes that not even makeup could conceal.

  “I have to leave for a while,” she told Charlotte once they were inside. “I have some business that needs tending, and I—I also have to make funeral arrangements. For when they release Jackson’s body,” she added.

  Charlotte set her supply carrier on the floor. Though she was well aware that Jeanne’s so-called business included a trip to the police station, she recalled Judith’s warning about revealing their relationship, so she simply nodded in response.

  Jeanne shifted from one foot to the other, started to say something else, but hesitated. Then, as if gathering her courage, she straightened her shoulders. “I truly appreciate you coming last night,” she said. “And I want to apologize for the misunderstanding with the police.” She sighed deeply. “But I also need to ask another favor of you.”

  A sudden rush of sympathy for the younger woman gushed through Charlotte. With virtually no friends and little family left, Jeanne had no one she could turn to, no one but the maid. How sad that had to be for someone of her social status, someone who appeared to have everything that money could buy but no one to depend on in a crunch. Was it any wonder that she found it hard to ask for help?

  Charlotte reached out, caught Jeanne’s hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re welcome,” she said softly. “No apologies necessary, and I’ll be happy to do whatever I can to help out.”

  Jeanne attempted a smile, but the telltale quiver of her bottom lip betrayed her. “Thank you,” she whispered. She cleared her throat as if the action would banish the strong emotion evident in her eyes. “James called late last night,” she said. “He insisted that Anna-Maria should spend the day with him. At first, she didn’t want to go anywhere, but he talked her into it. And frankly, I’m relieved. She needs his support now more than ever.”

  “Her fiancé sounds like a really nice young man.” Charlotte offered.

  “Yes,” Jeanne nodded. “Yes, he is. He also offered to come with us to the funeral home later this morning. But with Anna-Maria gone and now I have to leave, well . . . I—I need someone to look in on Mother. There’s a service I could call,” she hastened to add, “one that specializes in sitting with elderly people, but when I mentioned it, Mother pitched a fit.”
r />   Charlotte held up her hand. “Don’t say another word. I’ll be happy to check on Miss Clarice for you while you run your errands.”

  Before Jeanne left, she brought down the wicker tray she used when she served Clarice her meals. From the looks of the food left in the dishes, the old lady had barely touched her breakfast.

  “I’m worried about her,” Jeanne confided. “If she keeps this up, I’ll have to call her doctor.”

  “I’ll watch her,” Charlotte reassured the younger woman. “She’s going to be just fine. Now run along and take care of your business.”

  Jeanne nodded, collected her purse and keys, and left through the back door.

  Charlotte stood in the doorway and watched her cross the deck. After she’d closed and locked the door, it suddenly occurred to her that Jeanne’s car was parked in the front driveway. She couldn’t quite picture Jeanne catching the city bus or walking all the way to St. Charles to catch the trolley just to avoid the reporters.

  Maybe she called a taxi, Charlotte thought as she peered out the window overlooking the backyard. But when a Ford Explorer instead of a taxi pulled up beside the back gate and Jeanne got inside, Charlotte grew even more curious.

  She caught a quick glimpse of the driver when Jeanne opened the passenger door, but she didn’t recognize the sandy-haired man due to the distance and the tinting of the vehicle’s windows. So who was the driver? Charlotte wondered as she turned away from the window.

  The answer came in a flash, and Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Her lawyer. “Of course, you silly woman,” she murmured. The man had to be Jeanne’s lawyer.

  Charlotte decided that the best place to start cleaning was in the kitchen.

  Though the Dubuissons’ house was never really dirty, Charlotte had worked out a schedule of sorts to keep it that way. Mondays were for general cleaning, which included dusting, mopping, vacuuming, and laundry. Wednesdays were reserved for the deeper cleaning: baseboards, inside windows, and the refrigerator. Fridays were much like Mondays, except on Fridays, Charlotte always put fresh sheets on all of the beds.

  Charlotte removed several small dishes of leftover food from the refrigerator. Then she wiped down the inside and rearranged the contents. As lagniappe, a little extra service she liked to provide, she made a list of condiments that needed replenishing. To the list she added eggs, bacon, and milk.

  Once she’d wiped down the outside of the refrigerator with a degreaser, she decided it was time to check on Clarice.

  She climbed the stairs and approached the old lady’s room. She’d expected to hear the television, but for once there was no canned laughter or clapping from a TV audience, the usual sounds of the game programs that Clarice always watched.

  From the doorway, she saw that the television set was silent and dark. And so was the rest of the room. All of the blinds were closed, and the curtains were drawn. Only tiny slivers of morning light peeped between the closed slats of the blinds, just enough for Charlotte to make out Clarice’s huddled form beneath the covers on her bed.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim room. As she continued staring at the huddled form, she was finally able to detect movement indicating that the old lady was still breathing. Clarice was probably just fine, Charlotte figured. But with an older person, one could never be sure. Maybe she should take a closer look just to be sure. After all, she had promised Jeanne she would check on her mother for her.

  Charlotte was halfway to the bed when she heard the sounds . . . sobs . . . low, muffled sobs.

  Under other circumstances, she might have assumed that the old lady was simply grieving over the death of her son-in-law, but after hearing Clarice and Jeanne’s argument and her talk with Jeanne on Friday, Charlotte found it hard to believe Jackson’s death could be the reason for Clarice’s tears.

  “Miss Clarice?” Charlotte stepped closer to the bed. “What’s wrong?” She reached out and touched what she thought was the old lady’s shoulder. “Are you ill? Are you in pain?”

  “Go-go a-away,” the old lady whimpered, cringing beneath Charlotte’s touch. “Just leave me alone.”

  Charlotte withdrew her hand and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Should she leave? Or should she stay? What if the old lady was ill and didn’t know what she was saying? What if she left her and Clarice had another stroke?

  “I don’t think I can,” she finally said. “I don’t think I can leave you like this, Miss Clarice. Won’t you please tell me what’s wrong?”

  Then a thought occurred to her. Maybe Clarice had had a change of heart. Maybe now that Jackson was dead, she was having trouble coping with her feelings about him. “Sometimes sharing things makes a burden lighter,” Charlotte said gently.

  From beneath the covers came a loud snort followed by

  Clarice’s muffled voice. “And sometimes sharing makes great fuel for gossip, eh, Charlotte? Be sure and tell all your friends about poor old crippled Clarice, locked away in her room, grieving for her dead son-in-law.”

  “I don’t gossip,” she told the old lady bluntly. Clarice’s accusation stung and insulted the very principle that Charlotte had upheld for years, but rather than being affronted, she found herself amused. At times, Clarice reminded her of a child, one minute crying, the next, pitching a temper tantrum.

  Charlotte reached down and switched on the bedside lamp.

  Suddenly, Clarice threw back the covers and struggled to sit up. “I don’t want that light on,” she cried, promptly switching it off.

  But in that brief moment, Charlotte got a good look at the old lady, and what she saw was a shock. Clarice appeared haggard and unkempt. The old lady’s thin hair was a tangle of dirty gray wisps, there were dark circles around her rheumy eyes, and the front of her wrinkled nightgown was spotted with what appeared to be food stains.

  “And I ain’t grieving,” Clarice shouted. “Not for that worthless piece of—”

  “Miss Clarice! Shame on you. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” she told her.

  “I’ll speak any way I want to speak. Besides, none of it matters anymore.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and a sob caught in her throat. “It-it’s all going to hell in a hand basket, anyway. Everything that Andrew tried to do.” She bowed her head and began to shake it from side to side as she clutched the sheet in her hands. “It-it’s all th-that O’Connor boy’s fault. If he’d just stayed where he belonged, none of this would be happening.”

  Charlotte frowned. “O‘Connor? Brian O’Connor?”

  “He did it,” Clarice moaned. “Just as sure as I’m sit’n here, he did it Sneaking around down on the porch ... think’n nobody knows he’s down there snoop’n around, spying. Well, I know—know all about what he’s been up to.”

  Charlotte could hardly believe her ears. What’s more, she wasn’t sure just how much of the old lady’s ramblings she should believe. Clarice never went downstairs, so how could she know that anyone was on the porch? “Miss Clarice, are you saying that Brian O’Connor killed Jackson?”

  “Who else?” she cried. “Ever since that summer he was here helping his daddy with the gardens, he wanted my Jeanne. Hated Jackson ’cause she married him instead.”

  Suddenly, a moan erupted from the old lady’s lips, a moan of pure anguish that sent chills chasing up Charlotte’s arms.

  “Oh, my poor, poor Anna-Maria,” she sobbed. “What’s she gonna do when she finds out she’s got a murderer for a daddy.”

  Charlotte frowned, finding it harder and harder to follow Clarice’s irrational ravings. “But Jackson’s the one who was murdered, so how could he be the murderer?”

  “No, no, no!” Clarice jerked her head from side to side, emphasizing each word. “Not Jackson, you ninny. Brian O’Connor. He’s Anna-Maria’s real daddy.”

  Shock waves washed over Charlotte, and she was stunned speechless. Brian O’Connor was Anna-Maria’s father?

  But Clarice hadn’t finished, it seemed, and Charlotte could do
nothing but stand there and listen. While she was truly mesmerized by what the old lady was revealing, Clarice’s logic was baffling. She’d accused Charlotte of being a gossip, yet here she was now, telling her all the family secrets. Maybe Jeanne was right, after all. Maybe the old lady was going senile.

  “He thought he was so smart,” Clarice continued. “But my Andrew was smarter. That stupid boy actually thought he could get that airhead daughter of mine to run off with him—and she probably would have, too, if Andrew hadn’t of stopped him. Stopped him good, too. No one ever defied Andrew and got away with it. He had that boy’s butt thrown in jail.

  “But chickens come home to roost,” Clarice added. “They always do.” She sniggered. “Or maybe I should say roosters. That O’Connor boy just couldn’t stay away. And Jackson got his. Serves him right, too.” She suddenly laughed. “The Good Book says that the love of money is the root of all evil. Well, my Andrew loved money, and so did Jackson. Andrew used it to threaten Jeanne and used it to bribe Jackson. Told Jackson if he’d marry Jeanne and pretend that Anna-Maria was his baby, he’d make him a partner.” Clarice laughed again, a maniacal sound that gave Charlotte the creeps. “And now look at the both of them. Both dead. And what good’s all that money now?”

  Both dead ... both dead ... Charlotte shivered. The persistent whispers she’d heard in her mind from the night before were back, and so was the eerie prickle of awareness. But like the night before, when she’d first realized that Jackson had died at his desk, the whispers were just as elusive now as they had been then. And now, as she had last night, Charlotte tried once again to ignore them.

  “You’re right,” she told Clarice, hoping she could calm her. “The money’s not much good to either of them now.”

  Charlotte should have let it drop right then and there. For the sake of keeping the old lady calm, she should have completely changed the subject. Yet in spite of her good intentions, her curiosity was aroused, and she found she couldn’t simply drop it. Too many unanswered questions crowded her mind, demanding answers.