Читать книгу Wash And Die - Barbara Colley - Страница 9

Though determined to find out what the man was up to, Charlotte decided it would be really careless not to take precautions. After digging in her purse, she finally located the small canister of pepper spray she always carried with her.

Now what? She couldn’t just walk up to the SUV with the pepper spray in full view. But how to hide it? Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sweater. Though the morning had started out cool, the day had warmed up considerably, typical New Orleans weather. She didn’t really need the sweater now, but it would help disguise the pepper spray.

Pepper spray in hand, she pulled on her sweater. After slipping the canister into the right pocket of her sweater, she dug out her cell phone and dropped it and her van keys into the left pocket. Then she climbed out of the van.

Casually, she slid both hands into the sweater pockets. With her right hand, she took a firm grip on the pepper spray and positioned her forefinger on the release button. That way, the pepper spray was hidden, but she could pull it out quickly if she needed it. Squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the van.

Though the man’s head was bowed, as if he were reading something, Charlotte knew good and well that out of the corner of his eye, he could see her coming.

Once she’d crossed the street, she was careful to stop just out of reach by the driver’s window.

“Ah, excuse me,” she said.

When the man turned his head toward her, the first thing she noticed was his coal black hair and the really dark sunshades he wore. Then she noticed his face, at least the part she could see. His smooth skin was tanned, and he had a square jaw, with a shadow of a dark beard. He had an aquiline nose and a strong but rigid profile.

Young and handsome, she thought. Too bad he was hiding his eyes behind the sunglasses. You could tell a lot about a person just by looking into their eyes.

“I don’t mean to be rude, young man, but I saw you sitting here yesterday morning. And now, here you are, back again. This is my neighborhood, and I want to know what you’re doing.”

The man sat up higher in the seat, and when he pulled off his sunglasses, she couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were the most brilliant blue that she’d ever seen.

“Ma’am, I apologize if I alarmed you,” he said smoothly.

Then, before Charlotte could even think about pulling out her pepper spray, he slipped a badge from the inside of a jacket pocket and held it up at the window. It could just as easily have been a gun, she thought, feeling a bit unnerved. If she hadn’t been so upset about Joyce, she would have used the good sense God gave her and called the police first to check the man out, instead of…

“I’m a police detective.”

His statement interrupted her thoughts and she breathed a sigh of relief. Though she tried to read what was written on the badge, he quickly slipped it back into his jacket pocket before she had enough time.

“If you don’t mind,” he continued, “I’d like to ask you a few questions pertaining to an investigation that I’m working on.”

The moment the detective said “investigation,” to Charlotte’s chagrin, Joyce’s name was the first one that popped into her head. Her next thought was that she should be ashamed for automatically assuming such a thing about Joyce. But she consoled herself with the fact that after all of the trouble Joyce had caused, her automatic assumption was just a natural reaction.

Suddenly, the detective opened the door and stepped out of the SUV.

He was taller than she’d expected. Keeping a cautious eye on him, Charlotte took a step backward and her fingers tightened on the canister of pepper spray. He’d claimed to be a police detective, so why was she still so jumpy around him? Maybe she should ask to see his badge again.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Still not quite trusting the so-called police detective, Charlotte hesitated. What if this was just a ploy to gain entrance to her house? So he could do what?

Immediately, all of the horror scenes from the television series Criminal Minds flashed through her head. For more years than she cared to remember, Charlotte had been both blessed and cursed by her imagination. Now she felt it was more a curse than a blessing.

She finally motioned toward her house. “It’s turned out to be such a beautiful day—how about we sit on my front porch?”

And what if he says no?

Before she could think of an alternative, the detective nodded his head.

“Your front porch will be just fine, ma’am.”

Once on the porch, and wanting to keep a healthy distance between herself and the detective, Charlotte hurried over to the swing and sat down in the middle of it.

The detective gave her a knowing look, and without blinking an eye, he settled on the porch landing near the steps. Once seated, he stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the porch column. “I’m looking for a woman who’s a key part of my investigation,” he said as he pulled a pen and a small spiral notebook out of his jacket pocket.

Disappointment ripped through Charlotte. Has to be Joyce, she thought. Even with all the problems that Joyce had caused, in her heart of hearts, Charlotte had held out hope that for once, Joyce had told the truth and was trying to get her life back in order. “Guess leopards can’t change their spots after all,” she whispered.

The detective frowned. “Excuse me? What was that?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Nothing important.” She sighed heavily. “I guess you’re here to talk about Joyce Thibodeaux.”

Though the detective didn’t verbally confirm her suspicions, he jotted something down in the notebook, then said, “And what about Ms. Thibodeaux?”

“Well, for one, she’s a very troubled woman.” Charlotte motioned toward Louis’s side of the double. “You see, she’s my tenant’s ex-wife. You might have heard of him,” she quickly added. “His name is Louis—Louis Thibodeaux. He’s a retired detective with the NOPD.”

Noticing the blank look on the detective’s face, Charlotte waved her hand. “Never mind. Anyway, it’s a long story, and to make a long story short, Louis works for Lagniappe Security, and after one of his trips to California, he brought Joyce home with him. He’d gone looking for Joyce to tell her about their new grandchild, but when he found her in a homeless shelter, she claimed that she was dying from cirrhosis of the liver. Feeling sorry for her, he persuaded her to come back to New Orleans. Then, a few weeks later, Louis learned that all that was wrong with Joyce was that she was an alcoholic. After that, he had her committed to a substance abuse program. And now she’s out.”

“Do you know where she’s staying?”

For reasons Charlotte wasn’t sure of, she found herself reluctant to tell the detective that Joyce was staying with her. Instead of answering his question, she hedged. “Not with Louis, that’s for sure. He said that he was done with her. And besides, he’s out of town at the moment, anyway.”

Suddenly, it occurred to Charlotte that Joyce could show up at any minute, and if Joyce did happen to show up, then the detective would know that she hadn’t been completely truthful about Joyce’s whereabouts. Of course Joyce had said that she would be gone most of the day, but Joyce said a lot of things that weren’t true. Time to end the interview and get rid of the detective.

“I’ve told you everything I know.” Charlotte stood, hoping that the detective would cooperate. Liar, liar, pants on fire… Ignoring the voice of her conscience, Charlotte continued, “So—if you don’t mind, I have some chores I have to get done and some errands to run.”

The detective hesitated, then finally nodded. “You’ve been very helpful, ma’am, and I appreciate the information,” he said as he pocketed the pen and notebook and stood.

As he turned and started down the steps, it suddenly occurred to Charlotte that in every episode of Law & Order that she’d watched, the detective always offered his business card to the person he was interviewing, just in case they thought of something to tell him later. Come to think of it, he never had even told her his name.

“Ah, excuse me,” she called out. “Do you have a card? You know—in case I think of something else to tell you?”

He stopped and threw her an amused look over his shoulder. “Sorry, I’m all out of cards, but I’ll be back in touch again.”

Unsure whether it was his smug tone of voice or the look on his face, Charlotte felt her temper spike. “Well, do you at least have a name?” she called out.

That brought him up short. A second later, when he turned to face her, his expression was tight with strain. “Yes, I have a name,” he said impatiently. “Name’s Aubrey Hamilton. Now, is there anything else?”

“No, nothing else,” she answered, taken aback by his tone.

Once inside her house, Charlotte went straight to her desk and wrote down the name Aubrey Hamilton on the desk pad. Beside the name, she wrote police detective, followed by several question marks. Maybe she’d give Judith a call about Mr. Aubrey Hamilton. Having a niece who was an NOPD detective had its advantages. If Judith didn’t know him, she had ways of finding out about him.

Thoughts of her niece reminded Charlotte of one of the errands she needed to run that afternoon, and she needed to get it done before the evening workday traffic.

It wasn’t that often that Charlotte went down into the French Quarter. For one thing, finding a parking spot could be a real pain, depending on what event was going on or what convention happened to be in town at the time. Besides which, Charlotte considered the parking-lot fees to be outrageous.

But Madeline’s birthday was coming up, and Charlotte had learned through Judith that there was a particular earring-and-necklace set that Madeline had admired in a small jewelry shop on St. Peter Street. Judith had already bought the necklace for her mother and had suggested that Charlotte might want to buy the earrings to match. Madeline could be picky and was hard to buy for, and for once, Charlotte was relieved to be able to get her sister something she knew Madeline really wanted.

Since the shop wasn’t but a few blocks down St. Peter, Charlotte decided to park in a parking lot near Jackson Brewery and walk from there. As she walked along the sidewalk that ran in front of the huge Jackson Brewery mall, she eyed the window displays from the shops inside.

When she passed a particular display, her footsteps slowed, and she stopped to stare wistfully at one of the mannequins that was decked out in a beautiful sky blue sweater and matching slacks.

Sighing longingly, she shook her head. “Yeah, right,” she murmured, and regretfully turned away and crossed over to St. Peter Street. There were only a few weeks year-round in New Orleans when the temperature got low enough to even wear a sweater, and since she already had a drawer full of nice sweaters, buying yet another one wasn’t the least bit practical.

Glancing around as she walked along Jackson Square, she was glad to see that the artists were back at their usual spots along the fence surrounding the Square. It was also good to see that the mimes and the ragtag street musicians had finally returned as well. Everything seemed almost normal again.

She chuckled beneath her breath when she passed a mime standing statue still, his face painted to look like a clown’s. Every time she saw a mime, the urge to stick out her tongue or make faces at him—anything to make him smile or laugh—would come over her.

“You’re weird, Charlotte,” she murmured to herself, and kept walking. The farther she walked up St. Peter, the more she began to notice that something was different. For one, the streets were fairly clean, cleaner than she’d ever seen them. Even before Hurricane Katrina, the Quarter had never been all that clean, and afterward, it was worse…until now.

She’d heard talk about the cleanup in the Quarter, and she’d read an article about it in the Times-Picayune, but this was one case where seeing was believing. The TP article had given most of the credit to a new French Quarter cleanup company, SDT Waste and Debris Services, and to its company president, a young entrepreneur who also owned a couple of hotels in the French Quarter as well.

Charlotte smiled. One thing she definitely remembered about the article was how handsome the young man was. Why, people, mostly women, even vied for his autograph. Even his own mother was amazed at all the attention her good-looking son the garbageman was receiving.

By the time that Charlotte finally reached the quaint jewelry shop, she was out of breath, a harsh reminder that she’d been neglecting her daily walking routine of late.

It took a few minutes of searching through the enclosed glass jewelry case, but Charlotte finally spotted a pair of earrings that looked similar to the necklace Judith had bought.

“May I help you?” the sales clerk asked.

“I hope so,” Charlotte told her. “My niece, Judith Monroe, bought her mother a necklace for her birthday. I was hoping to buy the earrings that matched the necklace.” She tapped her finger on the glass case right above the earrings. “I think those are the ones that match.”

“There’s one way to be certain,” the young woman said as she stepped over to a computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and within just moments, she smiled. “You’re absolutely right,” she told Charlotte as she turned away from the computer. “The earrings you picked out are the match to the necklace.”

Once Charlotte had paid for the earrings, she tucked the small jewelry sack inside her purse, then left the shop. When Charlotte approached the first cross street, she had to wait for a line of cars to drive past. When the last of the cars drove by, Charlotte glanced to her right to make sure the street was clear. Just then, a familiar-looking woman emerged from inside a shop across the street. Charlotte froze and narrowed her eyes.

At first, she thought that surely Joyce had seen her—she looked straight at her—but when she raised her hand to wave, Joyce turned away and hurried on down the street in the opposite direction.

“Guess she didn’t see me,” Charlotte muttered as she watched Joyce disappear around the corner. But why the hurry? she wondered. And unless her eyes deceived her, everything about Joyce’s body language screamed guilt. But guilt about what?

There you go again. Can’t ever give the poor woman a break.

Now even more curious, Charlotte ignored the aggravating voice in her head and glanced back at the shop that Joyce had come out of. When she read the sign above the door, P & J PAWNSHOP, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

A pawnshop! And a seedy-looking one at that.

Suddenly, a vision from earlier that morning popped into Charlotte’s head…Joyce and the tote bag she’d borrowed.

At the time, Charlotte had been more concerned that Joyce had “borrowed” the bag without asking, but now she wondered if maybe Joyce had needed it for more than just carrying her lunch.

As far as she knew, Joyce had nothing of real value, and renting an apartment cost money, so that left just one thing. Charlotte didn’t want to think the worst, but she couldn’t seem to tame her suspicious nature when it came to Joyce. All of her instincts were telling her it was highly possible that Joyce had “borrowed” something else from her without asking—something of value that she could pawn for money.

Charlotte shook her head and heaved a big sigh of frustration. There was only one way to find out.

After looking to her right again and seeing that the coast was clear, Charlotte stepped off the curb and crossed the street to the shop.

As she opened the front door of the shop, a bell jingled, announcing her entry. For several moments, Charlotte simply stood, her gaze taking in the crowded shop. Unlike on Royal Street, where the shops were well kept and contained beautiful antiques, the pawnshop was filthy. Most of the stuff in it looked like the kind of junk that would have been more suited to a flea market. Already, she felt the need for a bath, just being in the place.

Making sure she didn’t brush up against anything, Charlotte chose the path of least resistance as she made her way to a glass display counter. Behind the counter stood a rumpled, unshaven man, who didn’t look in much better shape than his dirty shop. Judging by the gray in his greasy-looking dark hair and the deep lines on his face, Charlotte figured the man was either in his late forties or early fifties.

“Got something to pawn, or are you buying?” he asked, his tone surly.

“Neither,” Charlotte told him, “but I have a question. That woman who just left is my houseguest, and I’m afraid that she’s stolen something of mine and pawned it.”

The man narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Not my problem, lady. That’s between you and your”—he paused a moment—“‘houseguest.’” He said it like it was a dirty word.

Charlotte thought it was quite revealing that the one thing he didn’t suggest was reporting the incident to the police. “Well, could you at least tell me if she pawned something?”

He squinted his eyes at her. “Look, lady, I’ve already told you that none of this is my concern, so stop asking.”

“It is your concern if you’re selling stolen property,” she shot back.

His expression turned to stone. “Lady, read my lips. Not. My. Problem.” Then, like Jekyll and Hyde, his expression softened, and although it seemed a bit forced, he grinned. “Besides, even us lowly pawnbrokers have a code of honor and confidentiality.”

Yeah, right, she thought, quickly scanning the display case full of cheap-looking jewelry for anything that looked remotely familiar. Seeing nothing, she did an about-face and headed for the front door. “Thanks for nothing,” she called over her shoulder.

Not expecting a response, she didn’t wait for one as she exited the shop and pulled the door closed with more force than necessary.

“‘Not my problem,’” she mimicked beneath her breath as she marched down St. Peter. “What a jerk!” she grumbled.

By the time Charlotte walked all the way back to her car, she was too tired to be angry any longer. All she wanted was to go home, prop her feet up, and have a nice cup of coffee. And like Miss Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, she’d think about everything tomorrow.

As Charlotte pulled into her driveway, she prayed that Joyce hadn’t returned yet. Though she’d tried to put Joyce—and the problems she presented—out of her mind, all during the drive home she’d thought about the situation and tried to decide how she was going to handle it. So far, no miracle solution had presented itself.

Once Charlotte parked the van, she headed for the porch. As she climbed the steps, a noise reached her ears, a noise that sounded suspiciously like it was coming from inside her house. She had either left the television on, a burglar was stealing her blind, or Joyce was inside.

But how had she gotten inside without a key?

Charlotte sighed. Had she ever told Joyce about the spare key hidden beneath the ceramic frog in the front flowerbed? She couldn’t remember doing so, but she must have. Since she was fairly sure that she hadn’t left the television on, and no burglar worth his salt would take the time to watch TV in the middle of burglarizing a house, the intruder had to be Joyce.