Читать книгу Maid For Murder - Barbara Colley - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Not even the overhang of the lower gallery was protection against the humid heat of the afternoon sun. Charlotte wiped perspiration from her brow and upper lip, then resumed sweeping away the trail of leaves, grass, and dirt that littered the ten-foot-wide porch. But the one thing she couldn’t seem to wipe away or sweep from her thoughts was Jeanne’s unsettling statement.

My father murderer is still out there.

Even now, despite the heat and the sweat soaking the back of her blouse, Charlotte still felt a chill, the kind that went clear to the bone. Though she knew intellectually that it was possible a person could get away with murder, she didn’t like to think that it could really happen, at least not in her safe, secure world.

Before long, however, the oppressive heat of the afternoon began to take its toll, and a cool, cleansing shower and a large glass of iced tea were all that Charlotte could think about. She should have swept the gallery earlier, when it was cooler, instead of saving it for last.

“Almost done,” she muttered as she turned the corner leading to the side gallery.

The side gallery fronted two rooms of the bottom story of the house—the front parlor and the library. Three sets of double French doors opened out onto the gallery—two sets for the parlor and one set for the library. In the days before air-conditioning, the doors were thrown open to create a draft inside the old house.

Just outside the doors of the library was a white three-piece bistro set, each piece composed of an intricately designed pattern made of cast iron. Though the table and chairs were perfectly situated for an early-morning first cup of coffee, Charlotte knew for a fact that the set was mostly for decoration.

So why had one of the chairs been moved deeper into the shade of the gallery, closer to the French doors?

Charlotte stepped closer, and for several moments she stared at the lone chair sitting sideways. How strange, she thought.

At that moment, the phone inside the library rang, and Charlotte went very still. After only two rings, someone within the house must have picked up one of the extensions, because the phone suddenly was silent again.

Growing more intrigued by the minute, Charlotte couldn’t resist the temptation to try out the chair. Once seated, she found herself privy to a perfect view of the library inside through the panes of the French door. She could see in, but she noted that because of the position of the desk inside, if someone were sitting at it, that person wouldn’t be able to see her. Not only could a person sitting in the chair hear whatever was going on inside, but that person could also see what was happening there.

What if someone was sneaking around outside on the gallery specifically for that purpose?

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, then grimaced. She was doing it again, letting her sometimes overactive imagination get the best of her, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She’d always been a sucker for a good mystery and was a huge fan of the genre. Over the years, she’d learned that reading the whodunit novels was the perfect outlet for that imagination.

A sudden loud racket gave Charlotte a start, and she jerked her head around to glare in the direction of the sound.

A lawn mower.

It was just a lousy lawn mower from the house next door. And a noisy one at that.

Of course, she thought, lowering her gaze to the trail of dirt, leaves, and cut grass and feeling a bit foolish. Just like the neighbors and most of the other homeowners in the Garden District, the Dubuissons employed a gardener to maintain their lawn and gardens. The gardener came two days a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Since the trail of debris seemed to end in front of the chair, more than likely the gardener, not some fantasy spy, was the culprit. He’d probably simply needed a place to rest and cool off.

“Big bad mystery solved,” she muttered. “The end.”

Deciding that the heat was getting to her more than she had thought and that she’d wasted enough time indulging her silly imagination, she stood and firmly repositioned the chair beneath the table, then hurriedly swept away the remaining debris.

Once back inside the house, Charlotte checked her cleaning supplies to make sure she had repacked everything. Since she had already loaded her vacuum into the van, all that remained was finding Jeanne so she could let her know she had finished.

Charlotte found her seated at a small secretary in the back parlor. Her brow creased in concentration, Jeanne was reading a paper on top of a stack of what appeared to be legal documents. Just as Charlotte stepped farther into the room, the phone on the desk rang. Charlotte didn’t like to eavesdrop on her clients, but at times, doing so was unavoidable.

From Jeanne’s side of the conversation, she learned that the caller was Jackson.

“But Jackson, this makes two nights in a row you’ve had to work late, and tonight is the Zoo To Do festivities. I thought we were going.”

Even from where Charlotte stood, it was hard to miss Jeanne’s frown of disapproval.

“Yes . . . yes . . . of course I understand,” Jeanne said. “I always do, whether I want to or not, don’t I?”

Sarcasm? From Jeanne? How totally out of character, thought Charlotte.

“Of course not,” Jeanne continued in a clipped tone. “You know I won’t go without you, and yes, I’ll leave the gate unlocked. . . again, but don’t expect me to keep your supper warm.”

After Jeanne hung up the receiver, Charlotte waited several moments before making her presence known. She’d seen Jeanne upset before, seen her hurt, even angry, but she’d never known her to be snide or bitchy.

Finally, Charlotte cleared her throat.

Jeanne glanced up. “Oh, Charlotte, sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Come on in.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m finished.” Charlotte walked over to the desk.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Just a second.” Jeanne turned and riffled through another stack of papers on the desk. “I know I put your check here . . . somewhere . . .” She stopped and pursed her lips in thought. Suddenly, she struck her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Now I remember. I put it away in the safe when I made out the bills.” She stood. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

While waiting for Jeanne’s return, Charlotte took a quick inventory of the room, checking for anything she might have missed while cleaning. Satisfied that all was in order, she glanced down at the stack of papers Jeanne had been concentrating on. The one on top was a mortgage of some type. Curious, Charlotte leaned closer. When she saw that it was a mortgage on a piece of property in a place called Gould, Colorado, and was made out to Jackson, she frowned.

Neither Jackson nor Jeanne skied, and as far as she knew, Jackson didn’t go in for hunting. So why would he own property in Colorado? she wondered.

She supposed that Jackson and Jeanne could have decided to take up skiing, but she didn’t recognize the town as being near any of the major resorts. More than likely, the property was simply an investment, she decided. Someone with Jackson Dubuisson’s means would have various financial investments all over.

From down the hallway, she heard the click of Jeanne’s shoes against the wooden floor. With a shrug, Charlotte stepped away from the desk. Why Jackson owned property anywhere was really none of her business.

“Here it is.” Jeanne entered the room and handed Charlotte a check. “And I’ll see you again on Monday, as usual?”

Charlotte accepted the check and nodded. “On Monday,” she confirmed.

Afternoon traffic was heavy, but not nearly as hectic as the early-morning traffic had been. Though Charlotte had worked a bit later than usual at the Dubuissons’, she figured she still had plenty of time to rest up a bit before her outing later that night.

When she let herself in the front door, she grinned as she watched Sweety Boy’s antics, designed to get her attention. The chirping little bird pranced back and forth along his perch, his wings ruffling and fluttering.

“So you missed me, did you?” she said, locking the front door behind her and setting down her purse in a chair. “Well, it’s good to know that somebody misses me when I’m gone.”

Charlotte opened the door of the birdcage and offered her forefinger. The parakeet immediately hopped on. “Say ‘I missed you, Charlotte,’ ” she told him in a high-pitched singsong voice. “Come on, Sweety, say it now, say ‘I missed you, Charlotte.’ ”

The little bird cocked his head but said nothing. Charlotte grimaced. The few times she’d given in to a weak moment and envisioned owning a pet, she thought about a cat or a dog, but never a bird. Then, six months ago, the tenants who had been renting the other side of the double skipped out, owing her two months in back rent. Not only had they left the place in a shambles; they’d also left the little parakeet behind.

When she’d discovered him, he was in pitiful shape, half-starved and wheezing, with a discharge coming from his eyes and nostrils.

She’d immediately rushed him to a vet, and with antibiotics, food, and care, she’d nursed him back to health. Only recently had she decided to teach him to talk, but so far, she’d had no luck.

Charlotte repeated the same phrase four more times before finally giving up. “Come on, boy. Enough for today.” She withdrew him from the cage. “Exercise time for you.”

The moment he was free of the confines of his cage, he flew directly to her shoulder. There he pranced back and forth for several moments, his tiny claws tickling her through her blouse. Finally, he grew tired of the game and flew off toward the cuckoo clock.

The top of the clock was one of the little bird’s favorite out-of-cage perches, and Charlotte had a sneaking suspicion that the silly parakeet thought the cuckoo was a real bird. Just thinking about it always made her grin.

She was still grinning when she glanced over at her desk and saw the light on her answering machine blinking rapidly, indicating several messages. Her grin instantly dissolved into a frown, followed by a groan. Still feeling hot and sweaty from sweeping the Dubuissons’ gallery, she had hoped to have a nice refreshing shower as soon as she got home.

“Business before pleasure,” she muttered as she hit the REPLAY button.

The first message was from her son, reminding her that she’d promised to attend the annual Zoo To Do fund-raiser with him that evening. “As if I could forget,” she muttered.

Because Hank was on call at the hospital, he suggested that she meet him at the event instead of his picking her up. Then he gave her specific instructions as to where and what time to meet him.

“And Mother,” he added, “you know how dangerous it can be at night for a woman alone, so ...”

Charlotte rolled her eyes upward toward the ceiling as she listened to her son proceed to give her a short lecture about driving at night and taking the proper safety precautions. Never mind that she’d been driving alone at night since he was in diapers, thought Charlotte.

With a shake of her head, Charlotte let out a weary sigh. Poor Hank. What was she going to do about him? Such a worrywart. And such a pain in the butt at times. First the incessant nagging about retirement and now all these highfalutin social events he insisted she attend.

She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to suspect that her beloved only child was turning into a bit of a snob. He knew better than to come right out and say so, but it was becoming increasingly evident that the great doctor was embarrassed that his mother still worked as a maid.

“How soon we forget,” she grumbled when Hank’s message ended. “Never mind that it was my maid service that helped put him through medical school.”

After Hank’s message, there were a couple of inquiries from prospective clients. Charlotte made quick notes of the names and phone numbers so she could return the calls.

The last message was from Cheré Warner, another of Charlotte’s full-time employees.

“Charlotte, you’ve got to call me back just as soon as you get home. Boy, have I got an insider tip for you on a cleaning job up for bid. It’s a short-term job for big bucks, Charlotte, so call me.”

The excitement vibrating in Cheré’s voice was hard to ignore, and after glancing at the cuckoo clock and determining that she still had plenty of time to shower and dress, Charlotte returned the call.

“I’ll be right over,” the young woman told her when she answered. “Just give me fifteen minutes.”

“No hurry.” Charlotte laughed. “Take twenty minutes,” she suggested. “I need a shower.”

It took a precious five minutes to coax Sweety Boy back into his cage before Charlotte finally stepped into the shower. Even though she’d had visions of a luxurious, cool soak in the bathtub, with lots of bath oil, the quick wash she had to settle for was still refreshing.

Charlotte had just dried off from her shower and had slipped into a robe when her doorbell rang. She glanced at the cuckoo on her way to the door. Twenty minutes on the dot.

Cheré Warner was like a breath of fresh air. With her dark, bouncy hair and shining black eyes, she was a bright, energetic young woman who was working her way through college to get a business degree. Cheré was both dependable and reliable, and Charlotte felt fortunate to have her working for her. During the two years she’d been employed by Charlotte, not once had a client ever complained.

“Come in, Cheré.” Charlotte motioned for the younger woman to enter. “How about a glass of iced tea?”

Cheré grinned. “Oh, Charlotte, you know I love your iced tea. No one makes it like you do.”

A few minutes later, armed with tall glasses of iced tea, both women seated themselves on Charlotte’s sofa.

“Okay, now tell me about this insider tip.”

Cheré’s face lit up with excitement. “You know that old Devillier house on St. Charles Avenue that’s being renovated into apartments?”

Charlotte frowned. “That’s the house just down from the Pontchartrain Hotel, isn’t it?”

Cheré nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. Roussel Construction is doing the job.” She took a quick sip of tea. “Well! The construction is just about complete. All they lack are a few finishing touches. And once the city inspectors do their thing, Roussel’s will be soliciting bids for the cleanup. In fact”—Cheré was almost squirming with eagerness—“ my source says that it will probably be a first-come, first-serve-type thing, that the bidding is mostly a formality, since Roussel’s is anxious to be done with this particular job.”

“Your source?” Charlotte’s right eyebrow rose a fraction, and a grin tugged at her mouth. “And just who is this source of yours, and how reliable is this information? Another one of your boyfriends?”

“Oh, Charlotte, stop teasing. And if you must know, this particular source isn’t a boyfriend . . . Well, not exactly—not yet.” She giggled. “Of course, if I have my way . . .”

Charlotte simply shook her head. “Cheré, Cheré, Cheré. What am I going to do with you?” But Charlotte couldn’t help laughing. Cheré had a personality that just wouldn’t quit and seemed to collect boyfriends like some people collected stamps. “So who is this new, soon-to-be boyfriend?”

The younger woman’s eyes took on a dreamy glaze. “None other than Mr. Todd Roussel, the son of Roussel Construction. He’s taking a semester off from school to learn the business.”

“I’d have to say that sounds like a pretty reliable source. Now, for the big question. What kind of money and time are we talking about?”

The more Cheré told her about the specifics involved with the job, the more interested Charlotte grew. Even as she mentally estimated the extra supplies she would need and the extra help she would have to hire, the project was still worth a great deal of money for such a short period of time; just the type of job that she needed to shore up her flagging retirement account.

It had been a good six months since she’d been able to add to the account. Every spare dime had been soaked up by yet another loan she’d had to make to her sister, Madeline, to bail her out of her latest financial disaster.

Charlotte instructed Cheré to get the name and phone number of the contact person at Roussel Construction, and after thanking the younger woman, she promised her a nice bonus if the job came through.

Once Cheré left, Charlotte quickly returned the other two messages she’d received earlier. Both potential clients sounded like good prospects. She assured the women that she could fit them in, and she promised to get back to them once she’d checked her schedule book.

After her conversations, Charlotte pulled out her schedule book. “Hmm, maybe I spoke too soon,” she murmured as she glanced over the present schedule. “At this rate, I might have to consider hiring another full-time employee.”

The Zoo To Do, always held on the first Friday night in May, was an annual event that benefited the New Orleans Audubon Zoo and raised thousands upon thousands of dollars.

Charlotte had never attended before, but she knew all about it from listening to clients who had attended over the years.

It was a black-tie gala affair held at the zoo. A ticket could cost anywhere from $155 to $195, depending on whether the person purchasing it was an Audubon member or nonmember.

For the price of a ticket, the guests could enjoy an evening of music, dining, and dancing, complete with wine, champagne, and a variety of other beverages. Charlotte had heard that the samplings of food were fantastic and were provided by well over a hundred of the finest restaurants in New Orleans. Her mouth watered at even the thought of some of the more popular dishes she’d been told to expect: bananas Foster, shrimp étouffée, turtle soup, grilled alligator sausage . . .

Everybody who was anybody socially attended the event, and they dressed to the hilt—men in tuxedos and women in slinky cocktail dresses.

Charlotte turned her van onto River Road, and as she drew near the intersection of Broadway, she began to grow more apprehensive with each passing minute. She hoped she’d dressed properly, since the last thing she wanted was to embarrass Hank. Nothing in her closet had come close to resembling slinky cocktail attire, and she’d settled for her old, reliable little black dress and pearls.

At the moment, however, what she was wearing was the least of her worries. The cars in front of her had slowed to almost a standstill, and she was stuck in a line of traffic that seemed to crawl forward inch by inch.

Charlotte glanced at the digital clock on her dashboard and grew even more apprehensive. She should have left earlier. Hank would have a fit if she didn’t show up on time, and she’d have to listen to him give her yet another lecture.

He’d said he was on call, but did he have his cell phone or his pager with him tonight? she wondered. Just about the time she made up her mind to try his cell phone, the traffic picked up speed, so she decided to take her chances and hope for the best.

By the time Charlotte was able to ease her van into a parking space in the huge, crowded parking lot, she’d had plenty of time to rethink her earlier concerns, and she’d calmed down somewhat. After all, in the grand scheme of things, what she was wearing was nobody’s business but her own, and if her son didn’t like the way she’d dressed or was embarrassed by it, then that was just tough. She’d never been the pretentious type, anyway, and she was too old to start now.

In the parking lot, she waited by her van for the small transportation bus Hank had told her about that was designated to take guests from their vehicles to the front gate.

The moment she stepped off the bus, she spotted her son striding purposely toward her, a look of relief on his face.

Charlotte caught her breath at the sight of him. There were times, like now, that he reminded her so much of his father that bittersweet whispers of the past tugged at her emotions and almost brought tears to her eyes.

Tall and lean, with sandy-colored hair and piercing blue eyes, he was the spitting image of his father, a man he’d never known except through Charlotte’s memories and a few pictures she’d kept.

“I was beginning to get worried,” he told her after a brief hug.

Charlotte waved her hand toward the parking lot. “Traffic,” she said by way of explanation. “And before you start,” she added, “yes, I should have left earlier. But I didn’t, and I’m here. So there.”

A slow, knowing grin tugged at Hank’s lips. “Okay, Mother. No lecture this time. And by the way, you really look lovely.”

A warm feeling spread within her, and Charlotte curtsied. “Why, thank you, kind sir. You look pretty spiffy yourself.”

Hank gave a crisp little half-bow, then held out his arm. “Now that we’ve got all of that out of the way . . .”

Charlotte laughed and tucked her arm in his.

Once inside the gate, Hank guided Charlotte toward a small group of people crowded around a nearby bar.

The crowd shifted, and Charlotte immediately recognized one of the women.

“Mother, you remember Carol, don’t you?” Hank reached out and captured the hand of the woman Charlotte had recognized.

Carol was a little taller than Charlotte. She was a slim woman with warm brown eyes, and she wore her dark shoulder-length hair in a classic page-boy style.

But it was Carol’s dress that really caught Charlotte’s eye. The knee-length dress was a deep wine color; it draped softly at the neckline and consisted of layers of iridescent chiffon over a brightly colored purple slip.

“Of course I remember Carol.” Charlotte smiled and embraced the younger woman with enthusiasm. “It’s good to see you again, dear, and I just love that dress.”

“Good to see you, too, Mrs. LaRue, and thanks. I’m so glad that Hank talked you into coming tonight.”

Charlotte winced at the “Mrs.” but didn’t bother correcting the error. “Mrs. LaRue sounds so old,” she said instead. “Please call me Charlotte.”

“Thanks, I’d like that,” Carol told her.

Charlotte had met Carol Jones only on one other occasion, a Christmas party sponsored by Hank and his partners for children confined to the hospital over the holidays. Then, as now, she’d felt immediately drawn to the younger woman. She was relieved and delighted to know that Hank was still dating her. Maybe, just maybe, Hank had finally met the right woman, she thought.

Besides being attractive, Carol had seemed to be a generous, caring woman, and Charlotte had been impressed. Unlike Mindy, Hank’s ex-wife, Carol also seemed to have a sensible, practical nature that strongly appealed to Charlotte.

Surely the fact that Hank was still seeing Carol was a good sign, she thought. At least she hoped so. For a long time after he’d divorced Mindy, she’d wondered if he would ever recover from what his ex-wife had done. It had taken him years to get to the point where he was even interested in dating again, and even then, he’d hardly ever asked a woman out more than once or twice.

Hank wasn’t getting any younger, and neither was she. If she ever hoped to have grandchildren, he needed to stop fooling around and get down to business.

A granddaughter would be nice, she thought longingly. A little girl she could cuddle and spoil. But a grandson would do just as well.

Then a horrible thought suddenly struck her. Hank’s first wife hadn’t wanted children. What if Carol felt the same way, too? Surely Hank wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.

Only one way to find out, she decided. Charlotte smiled up at her son. “Hank, honey, why don’t you get us all a nice glass of wine? Carol and I will wait right over there.” She pointed to a bench that was miraculously empty, considering the crowd of people standing around.

Hank firmly shook his head. “Oh, no, you don’t, Mother. I’m not letting you get Carol off alone to grill her.”

Charlotte feigned a hurt expression but was saved from outright lying about her intentions by Carol.

“What’s wrong, darling?” the younger woman crooned to him as she reached up and caressed his jaw. “Afraid I might learn all of your deep, dark secrets?” Then, with a saucy wink, she turned to Charlotte and took her firmly by the arm. “Come along, Charlotte. We can grill each other.” With a throaty laugh, she steered Charlotte toward the empty bench.

Two hours later, Charlotte found herself standing alone, just on the edge of the dancing area. After covering yet another yawn with her hand, she glanced at her watch. “Way past my bedtime,” she muttered. “Time to go home.”

Wondering if she’d stayed long enough to satisfy her son, she glanced around, looking for him. So where was he?

When she finally spotted him, he was among the dancers. In his arms was the lovely Carol. The band was playing a soft, dreamy song, designed especially for lovers. From the expression on Hank’s face, the last thing on his mind was the whereabouts of his mother.

As Charlotte continued watching, once again she felt the familiar tug of the past. From a distance, her son’s resemblance to his father was uncanny and more than a bit unsettling.

So why tonight? she wondered. It wasn’t as if Hank looked any different tonight than at any other time. Maybe it was the tuxedo. Though a far cry from the army uniform his father had worn, the tuxedo was still a uniform of sorts. And the music . . . the dreamy dance music, what her generation called belly-rubbing music . . .

Charlotte shook her head. “Definitely time to go home,” she murmured, pulling her gaze away in an effort to fight the onslaught of past memories, painful ones that seemed determined to intrude on this particular night.

Hank’s father, the love of her life, was gone, she firmly told herself, gone forever. And no amount of longing or wishing things were different would change that fact; it was a reality she’d had to learn to cope with the hard way.

“Charlotte? Charlotte LaRue!”

Even with the noise of chatter and music there was no mistaking the squeaky voice calling out to her or the spry, birdlike old lady headed her way.

Charlotte groaned softly. Of all the people she didn’t want to get stuck with, Bitsy Duhe headed the list. Bad enough she had to endure the old lady’s endless chatter every Tuesday, when she cleaned her house. A shameless gossip, Bitsy seemed to know something about everyone, thanks to the hours she spent on the telephone.

A sudden tug of guilt pulled at Charlotte’s conscience, and shame flooded through her for her uncharitable attitude.

Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans, and the couple had led an active social life even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, leaving her all alone except for their son and two granddaughters. But her son and granddaughters lived in other parts of the country. Bitsy was simply a lonely old lady, so desperate for human contact and companionship that she resorted to phoning around, collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.

Tuesday, Charlotte told her conscience as she quickly glanced around, seeking the best avenue of escape. I promise I’ll be more charitable on Tuesday, when I clean her house, but please, just not tonight.

For an elderly lady in her eighties, Bitsy was fast, though, and before Charlotte had taken two steps, Bitsy grabbed hold of her arm.

“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”

As usual, Bitsy’s purple-gray hair was pulled straight back, away from her face, and fashioned into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided to Charlotte that by pulling her hair back, she could smooth out the wrinkles in her forehead. And as usual, Bitsy wore one of her numerous midcalf flowered dresses.

Reminding herself that Bitsy was a client, Charlotte pasted a smile on her face. But before she could return the old lady’s greeting, Bitsy was chattering away, nonstop. With Bitsy, one never carried on a conversation. One simply listened.

“I meant to call you today,” the old lady told her, “but what with my doctor’s appointment and grocery shopping, I never got around to it. I was wondering if you could possibly come in tomorrow to clean instead of next Tuesday.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to tell the old lady that, regretfully, she had already made plans, but Bitsy kept right on talking.

“Now, Charlotte, dear, I realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and of course I would pay you extra” She took a deep breath and smiled proudly. “You see, my granddaughter called this morning, and she’s coming for a visit—you know, she’s the one who lives in New York. And she’s flying in tomorrow evening. I really want everything to be nice and tidy for her visit, but I don’t have a lot of time.”

Again Charlotte opened her mouth to tell Bitsy she couldn’t come, but one look at the eager anticipation on the old lady’s face, along with the glow of excitement in her faded blue eyes, and she found she couldn’t do it.

“What time would you like for me to be there?” she said instead.

“Oh, my, I really hate to ask this of you, but could you possibly be there at seven instead of eight?”

Charlotte groaned inwardly but nodded her agreement.

“Wonderful!” Bitsy gushed. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you must let me buy you a drink.”

Charlotte frowned. “Buy? But I thought—”

“Yes, dear.” Bitsy snickered. “The drinks are included in the price of the ticket. I was just making a little joke.” Bitsy elbowed Charlotte. “Had you going for a second, though, didn’t I? My goodness, you’ve got to learn to lighten up or before you know it, you’ll turn into a sour old prune like me.” The old lady giggled, and Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

The last thing Charlotte wanted was to spend more time with Bitsy. What she wanted was to go home. But Bitsy latched on, and Charlotte found herself having a drink with the old lady, after all, as well as enduring another half hour of her endless chatter.

For a while, she was able to ignore most of what Bitsy said as the old lady pointed out first one person, then another one, and proceeded to regale Charlotte with the latest rumors circulating about the people she’d singled out.

Then, suddenly, Bitsy threw out a name, and all of Charlotte’s senses went on alert.

“Can you believe the nerve of that Jackson Dubuisson? Just look at them.” Bitsy shook her head. “And her a married woman. Even more scandalous, she’s his partner’s wife.” As if realizing she finally had Charlotte’s full attention, she nudged her and pointed. “Over there, just on this side of the fountain. I tell you, it’s one thing to have an affair, but to flaunt it in front of the whole city—well, I never!”

Charlotte followed Bitsy’s finger. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she spotted the couple. Just as Bitsy had said, Jackson Dubuisson was on the dance floor. Cuddled against him like a satisfied cat who had just found a bowl of cream was Sydney Marriott.

Charlotte had once worked for Sydney and knew that, in fact, Bitsy was right. Not only was Sydney a married woman, but she was married to Tony Marriott, Jackson’s law partner.

He’d lied, Charlotte thought. He’d outright lied to Jeanne about working late. While Jeanne was home, tending to her invalid mother, thinking that her husband was working, Jackson was out having a high old time.

Snippets of Jeanne’s side of the phone conversation when she’d talked to Jackson earlier began coming back to Charlotte, and she frowned. Had Jeanne suspected that Jackson was lying to her about working late? Did she suspect that he was having an affair? Even as socially insulated as she’d become, someone who was as prominent as Jeanne wasn’t totally cut off from the old-girl network. Someone along the way would have let it slip about Jackson.

Yes, Charlotte decided. Jeanne surely had to know. And if she knew, it would go a long way in explaining why she’d been so uncharacteristically sarcastic and short with him over the phone.

Suddenly, Charlotte recalled Clarice’s words from earlier that morning.... he’s a no good scoundrel . . . Maybe Clarice wasn’t quite as senile as Jeanne thought, after all.

“Oh, poor Jeanne,” Charlotte murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the couple. They were dancing so close that they seemed to blend into one; it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Humph!” Bitsy scoffed. “Poor Jeanne my foot. You better feel sorry for Sydney. Here comes that husband of hers, and he looks like he could chew nails. I know I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

Sure enough, Tony Marriott was headed straight for the dancing couple, and the murderous look on his face was enough to give Charlotte the cold shivers.