Maid for Murder Read online

  “Just one thing, though, Miss Clarice. I’m curious. Later on, after Brian got out of prison, why didn’t Jeanne simply divorce Jackson and go off with him, especially after Mr. Andrew’s death?”

  Clarice covered a yawn even as she shook her head. “Too late by then,” she mumbled, leaning her head back against the pillows. “By then, Anna-Maria thought Jackson was her daddy, and Jackson threatened Jeanne. Told her if she ever left him, he’d make sure that little girl found out who her real daddy was, said he’d tell her all about how her real daddy was nothing but a no-account jailbird, then he’d tell everyone else.”

  Charlotte shuddered inwardly. Only a truly cruel man would even threaten something so mean and contemptible.

  The old lady yawned again, and her eyes drifted shut. “Truth ever came out, my Anna-Maria would never be able to take her rightful place in New Orleans society.” Clarice sighed, then murmured. “Be too big a scandal. Nobody suitable would have married her.”

  As Charlotte stood there, trying to absorb all that Clarice had revealed, the old lady’s breathing slowed until it became deep and even. But her last words kept swirling through Charlotte’s head. Nobody suitable would have married her.... Nobody suitable would have married her.... The more she thought about the implications of such a statement, the angrier she grew.

  Just like Jeanne, Charlotte had never married the father of her child, so did that make him unsuitable? According to Clarice’s screwed-up standards, it did. Never mind that he was a devoted, loving son. Never mind that his morals were above reproach. And never mind that he had become a well-respected, much sought-after surgeon, a doctor who people entrusted their very lives to.

  Charlotte glared at the old lady, now fast asleep and completely oblivious to the turmoil her careless words had caused. Why was she letting such hogwash get to her? she wondered even as she reminded herself that Clarice’s priorities were not only way off but out-and-out wrong.

  Having come from working-class people, Charlotte had never been a part of, nor had she been able to understand, all of the rites of passage connected with so-called New Orleans wealthy society. Coming-out parties, the debutante thing, all designed to showcase young women of wealth, to parade them in front of young men who were their so-called contemporaries. To Charlotte, it was a lot of rigmarole that amounted to nothing truly important.

  Love, responsibility, family, and friends were what was truly important Putting food on the table and paying the bills were important. And above all, one’s faith in God was the most important.

  Clarice emitted a raunchy snore, and a slow smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. People like Clarice, people of wealth and social standing, were no better than anyone else. They just had more money. So why were they held in such esteem by those who had less money? The love of money is the root of all evil.

  Charlotte grimaced. No truer words were ever written. Of course, to be fair, she thought, she supposed that if she’d grown up on the other side of the fence, she might feel very differently about the importance of such things.

  Charlotte tiptoed out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. She might feel differently, but she couldn’t imagine that she actually would. She was simply too practical-minded. Always had been.

  From behind the closed door, the old lady snored peacefully. Outside in the hallway, Charlotte fretted over what Clarice had revealed.

  Was any of it true? Or was it all simply the fabrications of a confused old lady? Was Brian O’Connor truly Anna-Maria’s father instead of Jackson? Could he have murdered Jackson in cold blood as some sort of retribution for the past? Men had killed for a lot less.

  But why now? Why, so many years later?

  Charlotte thought about calling her niece and telling her what Clarice had said about Brian O’Connor. Then she thought about all of the questions Judith would be obligated to ask, questions that could prove both embarrassing as well as stressful to Jeanne, especially if none of it was true.

  And proof. Judith would want some kind of proof. But short of asking Jeanne to confirm or deny what Clarice had revealed, there was no way of proving that the old lady was telling the truth. Judith would more than likely write it off as simply the ramblings of an embittered, senile old woman.

  No, Charlotte finally decided. She just couldn’t do that to Jeanne. Not only would doing such a thing be a betrayal of confidence, but telling tales on clients was highly unprofessional, in Charlotte’s opinion. Besides, even if she asked Jeanne, more than likely she would deny everything, especially if what Clarice had said were true and she had sacrificed herself by settling for a loveless marriage so that she could protect her daughter’s paternity. Jeanne already had enough to contend with, anyway, she decided.

  With a heavy sigh, Charlotte trudged down the hallway. As long as she was already upstairs, she could make a start at cleaning the other bedrooms.

  When Charlotte entered Anna-Maria’s room, she was shocked at what she saw. Normally, the girl was tidy and took pride in both her surroundings and her appearance, but the pink-and-white princess room, as Charlotte thought of it, looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.

  Several pairs of jeans, a pile of T-shirts, along with an array of lacy bras and panties, were strewn across the floor near the closet. The embroidered silk duvet was in a jumble on the bed, spilling onto the floor. On the dresser was a collection of dirty glasses and mugs. The mugs were empty, but a couple of the glasses still contained a dark liquid that she suspected was Coke, since that was Anna-Maria’s drink of choice. Charlotte counted four plates stacked together on the floor in front of the dresser. The top plate had a half-eaten slice of pizza on it, and from the uneven way the plates beneath were stacked, she suspected they still contained food, too.

  By the time that Charlotte finished cleaning Anna-Maria’s room, it was almost noon, time for lunch, and she almost panicked. With Jeanne gone, it would be up to her to fix Clarice’s noonday meal.

  After a quick peek at the old lady, Charlotte hurried down the stairs, her hands filled with the dirty glasses and dishes from the girl’s room.

  Thank goodness Clarice was still sleeping, she thought. Maybe she would have time to come up with something really appetizing for her, something that would entice her to eat. And wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for Jeanne, for her to know that her mother was finally eating again.

  But what to fix? she wondered. What would Clarice be more likely to eat? Charlotte was almost to the kitchen door when she heard a noise and suddenly froze.

  Someone was in the kitchen.

  Visions of the broken pane of glass in the library and the bloodstains on the desk danced in her head. She gripped the dishes tighter to keep them from rattling.

  Chapter Nine

  Charlotte fought down the panic that was making her legs weak. Should she stay, or should she run? And if she ran, then what about Clarice?

  She wanted to run. Oh, how she wanted to run, screaming into the streets. But there was no way in good conscience that she could leave the poor defenseless old lady at the mercy of the intruder.

  The police. What she needed to do was call for help ... call 911. A phone. Where was the closest telephone, the one that was farthest away from the kitchen?

  Her eyes glued to the kitchen doorway, Charlotte slowly took a step backward. If she could just get to the back parlor without alerting the intruder, then—

  Charlotte froze when she heard footsteps from the kitchen ... decisive footsteps headed her way.

  “Who’s out there?” a voice called out.

  Jeanne’s voice. No intruder. Just Jeanne.

  Relief washed over Charlotte like a warm spring shower. “It’s Charlotte. Jeanne, it’s just me.”

  Jeanne stepped into the doorway. “My goodness, Charlotte! What are you doing sneaking around out here? I thought you were upstairs. You gave me a terrible fright.”

  “That makes two of us,” Charlotte quipped. “I heard a noise in the kitchen and thought�
��Well, I thought—”

  “You thought, and I thought—”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I was just on my way to fix lunch for Miss Clarice.” She nodded at the wicker tray Jeanne was holding. “But I see that you beat me to it.”

  “Yes—yes I did, and I’m the one who should apologize. I should have let you know I was home again. How is Mother, by the way?”

  Charlotte hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other one. Now would be the time to tell Jeanne about the things that her mother had said. Jeanne really needed to know. But one look at the shadows of fatigue beneath the younger woman’s eyes and she knew she couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t add to her worries, not right now.

  “She was still sleeping a few minutes ago when I looked in on her,” Charlotte told her instead. “And speaking of sleep. When was the last time you slept? You look really tired.”

  Jeanne shrugged, then shifted her gaze to stare at the floor. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever sleep again,” she said. “And I am tired.”

  “Of course you are, you poor thing.” It was bad enough that Jeanne had to cope with her husband being murdered and deal with making arrangements for his funeral, but she’d also had to contend with being questioned by the police like some ordinary criminal as well, thanks to Judith and Louis Thibodeaux. “Anyone would be tired after going through what you’ve had to go through,” Charlotte told her gently. “Tell you what.” She set the glasses and dishes she was holding down on the dining-room table. “Why don’t you let me carry that tray up for you and you go take a nice long nap.” She reached to take the tray from the younger woman, but Jeanne shook her head no.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Jeanne said, “but there’s something I have to discuss with Mother ... something that I really need to take care of first.”

  Charlotte let her hands fall to her sides, and she stepped back. “Well, if you’re sure ...”

  Jeanne gave her a weary smile. “At this point, I’m not really sure about anything.”

  “All the more reason you need to rest,” Charlotte insisted.

  Jeanne sighed. “I know you mean well, and there’s nothing I would like more right now. But you know what they say—no rest for the weary. Maybe later, though—after I make sure that Mother eats. Then maybe I’ll lie down for a while. But I do appreciate your concern,” she added.

  Charlotte knew when she was beaten, knew when to give in. “In that case”—she turned and picked up the dishes she’d set on the table—“I’ll just put these in the dishwasher, then I’ll go ahead and clean your bedroom. That way I won’t have to disturb you when you do decide to rest.”

  A few minutes later, when Charlotte entered the master suite, one quick glance around the room told her that cleaning it wouldn’t take long. In comparison to Anna-Maria’s room, the suite was inordinately neat. In fact, except for one of Jackson’s shirts tossed carelessly across the foot of the bed and a pair of his shoes on the floor near the dresser, the room looked almost exactly the same as she’d left it after cleaning on Friday, as if no one had occupied the room since then.

  “Now that’s strange,” she murmured, gazing at the king-sized bed.

  Only one side of the bed had been slept in. The left side. Jackson’s side. Charlotte knew it was Jackson’s side because it was next to the alarm clock, and she’d once overheard Jeanne talking and laughing with Anna-Maria about how Jackson insisted on sleeping next to the alarm clock, since she had a bad habit of turning it off instead of hitting the snooze button.

  The other side of the bed, Jeanne’s side, was unused. The comforter was still smooth and in place, as were the pillow shams and throw pillows.

  So where had Jeanne slept?

  She could understand that after Jackson’s murder it might have been too painful for Jeanne to sleep in the same bed that she’d shared with her husband. Even now, some forty-odd years later, Charlotte still couldn’t pass the Pontchartrain Hotel without having qualms.

  The one and only time she’d ever slept with Hank’s father had been in that hotel. Unlike Jeanne, she didn’t know what it was like to sleep with a man for almost a lifetime or even have a husband. And though she’d never regretted that one night of indiscretion for a moment, nor had she regretted the results of that night, just looking at the place conjured up painful memories of what could have been ... what should have been, if not for a foolish war.

  For years after his death, she’d fantasized about how her life might have been if he’d lived. In her dreams, she’d pictured a perfect marriage, one patterned after that of her own parents, one of a loving, caring couple with the same aims and goals. Only as she’d grown older had she come to realize that reality and fantasies rarely meshed. Her parents’ marriage had been the rare exception to the rule, from what she’d seen.

  Just because one person loved another didn’t mean they were necessarily suited to marriage. Her son had loved his ex-wife; her sister had claimed to love both of her ex-husbands. And just because a couple were wealthy and socially compatible didn’t guarantee everlasting happiness or harmony, not if Clarice and Jeanne’s marriages were gauges to measure by.

  Charlotte sighed deeply and shook her head in an attempt to shake loose the grip of her painful past. Wondering or even speculating whether she and Hank senior would have had a successful marriage was a waste of time and energy. She’d do better to concentrate on the present instead of the past.

  Charlotte stared at the bed. So where had Jeanne slept Friday and Saturday? Why hadn’t she slept with her husband?

  “And why are you standing around daydreaming when there’s work to be done,” she muttered. When and where Jeanne slept, or even with whom she slept, was none of her business.

  Even though nothing was really dusty, Charlotte dusted and polished all of the furniture surfaces, anyway, then moved on into the bathroom. There she emptied the wastebasket into a plastic garbage bag first, then cleaned the vanity mirror. Next, she wiped down the marble sink and countertop. After she’d scrubbed and disinfected the toilet, she did the same to the bathtub.

  Her last chore was to clean the tiled shower. But when she pulled the bottle of tile cleaner from her supply carrier, she groaned, realizing it was almost empty.

  Thanks to her restless night and having overslept, she hadn’t bothered to check on the cleaners in the supplier carrier, as she normally would have.

  “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Just wonderful.” Now she’d have to waste time on a trip out to the van to refill the bottle. Ordinarily, a trip to the van wouldn’t have bothered her, but because of all of the reporters, now she had to walk clear over to the next block. With a firm grip on the empty container and dark thoughts about the news media in general, she stomped out of the bathroom.

  As Charlotte approached the door leading into Clarice’s rooms, she suddenly stiffened when she heard the raised voices coming from inside. Since the door was half-open, she slowed her steps to a halt just past the opening.

  Jeanne and Clarice were at it again.

  “You have to, Mother!” Jeanne insisted, an edge of desperation in her tone. “You have to go.”

  “I don’t want to, and besides, you know I can’t get up and down the stairs,” Clarice whined.

  Charlotte frowned as she recalled scrubbing up the scuff marks on the tile in Clarice’s bathroom, then scrubbing up the ones that looked exactly the same on the stairs.

  “That’s bull, and you know it,” Jeanne retorted. “I’ll get Max to help you down the stairs, just like he does each and every month for your doctor’s visit. Besides, what will everyone think if you don’t show up for your own son-in-law’s funeral?”

  “What will everyone think?” Clarice’s indignant voice was a high-pitched squeal. “Since when do you care what everyone thinks?”

  “Mother, please, don’t start that again. Not now. You have to go, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “For your information, missy, I don�
��t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I didn’t like that two-timing gigolo while he was alive, and unlike some people,” she said, sarcasm dripping with each word, “I refuse to be a hypocrite and pretend I’m grieving now that he’s dead.”

  “So what about Anna-Maria? Don’t you even care what she thinks?”

  Charlotte didn’t wait around for Clarice’s answer. She figured she’d already heard more than she should have heard. Even so, the harsh, angry words of the two women rang in her ears all the way down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door.

  Clarice might insist she wasn’t grieving, might claim to have disliked Jackson, but if she wasn’t grieving, then what on earth was going on with her? Why had she declined to get out of bed, and why had she declined to eat the food brought to her?

  Charlotte noticed a group of people huddled together just across the street from the back gate as she walked the half a block to her van. Were they reporters, or were they simply gawkers wanting to get a look at the murdered man’s house? From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell.

  Probably gawkers, she thought with disgust as she unlocked the van and climbed inside. Of course, they could simply be one of the many guided walking tours that roamed the city. Tourists were always wandering around through the Garden District.

  Charlotte set about refilling the bottle of tile cleaner, then climbed out of the van. She was locking the door when she saw a man break free from the group and stride purposefully toward her.

  “Hey!” he called out. “Hey, lady, can I talk to you a minute?”

  Something about the slim but powerfully built man set off warning bells, and Charlotte always heeded warning bells. She firmly shook her head and walked briskly toward the back gate.

  “Wait up, lady. I’m a reporter for the Times-Picayune. I just want to ask a couple of questions.”