Читать книгу Death Tidies Up - Barbara Colley - Страница 9

It was the trill of the telephone that finally penetrated Charlotte’s morose brooding. With a frown, she shoved away from the table. An early phone call never boded well in her line of business, and usually meant trouble, a problem of some kind.

In the living room, Charlotte picked up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”

“Charlotte, this is Bitsy Duhe.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose in dismay. Why on earth was Bitsy Duhe calling her at this time of the morning? She’d just seen the old lady yesterday.

Usually she cleaned Bitsy’s house on Tuesdays, but this week, Bitsy had asked her to work an extra day, so Charlotte had cleaned her house again on Thursday, which was normally her day off. Bitsy’s granddaughter was coming into town for the weekend to attend a Tulane alumni class reunion, and she had wanted everything extra spiffy for her granddaughter’s visit.

“Have you seen today’s headlines?” Bitsy asked.

Charlotte almost groaned out loud. She should have guessed. All Bitsy wanted was to gossip. And this morning, of all mornings, Charlotte was in no mood to put up with her. But typically Bitsy, the old lady launched into a spiel without waiting for any response from Charlotte.

“I heard that Jonas Tipton is going to be the presiding judge at the trial,” she said. “How that man is still sitting on the bench is a miracle. Why he’s older than I am, and Margo Jones told me he’s almost senile. Why, I heard that—”

“Miss Bitsy!” Charlotte sharply interrupted. “You know I would love to talk to you, but the fact is, I can’t—not about this or anything else to do with the case. I’m under strict orders from the D.A. not to discuss it with anyone.”

Charlotte hesitated only a moment, then, “And my goodness, just look at the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late. I’ll have to call you back later, okay? You take care and enjoy that granddaughter of yours. Bye now.”

Without giving Bitsy a chance to reply, Charlotte deliberately hung up the receiver. Even as she prayed that the old lady wouldn’t call back, she immediately felt a twinge of guilt for her uncharitable attitude.

Bitsy was simply lonely, an elderly lady with too much time on her hands. But it hadn’t always been that way. 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, and all she had left was their son and two granddaughters.

Unfortunately, Bitsy’s son and one of the granddaughters lived in California, and the other granddaughter lived in New York. Bitsy, starved for human contact and companionship, had nothing better to do than to spend hours on the phone, calling around and collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.

When Charlotte returned to the kitchen, she paused by the table and glanced again at the headline. She’d stretched the truth a bit when she’d told Bitsy what the D.A. had said. He’d actually warned her against giving any press interviews about her association with the Dubuissons.

As if she would, she thought, deeply offended by just the thought. One of the first rules she insisted upon when she hired a new employee was complete confidentiality concerning her clients. Gossiping about clients was strictly forbidden and grounds for immediate dismissal. With Charlotte, it was a matter of principle, of pride, and just good business sense that her clientele trust her and her employees.

Charlotte’s gaze shifted to the article below the headline. Temptation, like forbidden fruit, beckoned. The D.A. had also cautioned her about letting anything she read or heard in the news influence her in any way. But surely it wouldn’t hurt just to read a few lines….

Curiosity killed the cat. Charlotte closed her eyes and groaned. Curiosity, along with disobedience, was also the ruin of Adam and Eve. Before she could change her mind, she snatched up the paper, marched to the pantry, and stuffed it into the trash can.

Besides, she thought as she pulled a box of raisin bran from the pantry shelf, her upcoming birthday was enough to be depressed about. She walked to the cabinet, set the box of cereal on the counter, then took milk and apple juice out of the refrigerator. Dredging up the whole horrible affair connected with the Dubuissons would only make matters worse.

After her bowl of cereal and glass of juice, Charlotte checked Sweety Boy’s supply of water and birdseed.

“My goodness, you’ve been a thirsty boy,” she told him as she removed the water trough. “And hungry,” she added, also removing the birdseed container.

Once both were replenished, she ran her forefinger over the little bird’s velvety head. “Pretty boy,” she crooned. “Say Sweety Boy’s a pretty boy.”

For an answer, the parakeet ducked her finger and sidled over to the narrow space between her wrist and the cage door. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she told him as she nudged him away from the door, then quickly eased her hand out of the cage. “I don’t have time to let you out this morning.” She quickly latched the door. “Tonight,” she promised. “I’ll let you out for a while tonight.”

Having taken care of the little parakeet, Charlotte rushed through her shower, then dressed. At her dressing table, she glared in the mirror at her hair. Just as she’d figured, it was sticking out all over her head, and she made a face at the image in the mirror.

Staring at her hair again reminded her of Louis Thibodeaux and what he’d said about Judith. As she switched on the curling iron, her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t so much what Louis had said as what he hadn’t said. From his tone, he’d given her the impression that he didn’t think much of his replacement, but that could mean any number of things.

She’d definitely call Judith, she decided, as she automatically began applying her makeup while waiting for the curling iron to heat. She’d definitely call her today.

Charlotte applied a touch of mascara to her lashes. Another call she needed to make was to the beauty shop. So write it down now, so you won’t forget.

Removing the pen and small notebook she always kept in her apron pocket, she quickly jotted down a reminder. Slipping the pen and notebook back inside the pocket, she glanced again at her reflection. For now, though, she’d just have to make do.

With a sigh, she began winding strands of her hair around the warm curling iron, and as she attempted to bring some kind of order to her messy hair, she began plotting how she would worm information out of Judith about her new partner. Like Louis, her niece could also be closemouthed and evasive when it suited her.

The short commute to work each morning was just one of the many advantages of living near the Garden District where most of her clients were located. Normally the drive to Marian Hebert’s house took less than ten minutes even with the usual bumper-to-bumper morning traffic on Magazine.

Charlotte was a bit ahead of schedule until she tried to turn onto Sixth Street; there, traffic was at a complete standstill. Craning her head, she could see swirling police lights about a half a block ahead.

She glanced in her rearview mirror, but already a line of vehicles had formed and she was blocked in. With a sigh of impatience, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Being prompt was another of her strict rules, but she still had plenty of time, she decided as she drummed a staccato rhythm with her fingers against the steering wheel.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the traffic began to slowly move once again. When she drove past the source of the blinking lights, her heart sank.

“And another one bites the dust,” she muttered, eying the crew of men who were clearing away the debris from a huge oak limb that had split off and fallen into the street.

Between the recent drought conditions in south Louisiana and the Formosan termite invasion, the huge oaks that had shaded the Garden District for almost a century didn’t stand a chance. Despite the city’s all-out effort to fight the destructive insects, a lot of damage had already been done, and at times, it seemed like a losing battle.

Last night had only been a small storm, and Charlotte shuddered to think what kind of damage a full-blown hurricane might cause. So far, New Orleans had lucked out, though, and contrary to dire predictions from the weather experts, the hurricanes that had formed since June had chosen other paths to wreak their destruction.

Minutes later, Charlotte pulled up alongside the curb in front of Marian’s house and parked. Though not as ostentatious as the Dubuissons’ home had been, Marian’s raised cottage type was just as grand in its own way. Like so many of the homes in the Garden District, it was over a century old and had been lovingly renovated as well as updated to accommodate all of the modern conveniences.

As typical of a raised cottage type, the original floor plan had been simple and consisted of four rooms, evenly arranged and separated by a wide center hall. Raised six to eight feet off the ground, the main living area was on the second level, with a staircase in front leading to the entrance.

Marian and her late husband had remodeled the home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.

From the back of her van, Charlotte removed her supply carrier. She let herself in through the front gate then climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.

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

Immediate concern marred Charlotte’s face. “Marian, my goodness, what’s wrong?”

Not exactly the calm or serene type anyway, Marian looked even more flustered than usual. She was still dressed in her gown and robe, her pale face was devoid of makeup, and her dark hair looked as if she’d spent a hard night tossing and turning.

Marian backed away from the door so Charlotte could enter. “What’s not wrong would be a better question,” she answered, wringing her hands. “It’s days like this I really miss Bill. At times, I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she added in a whisper.

Charlotte made a sympathetic sound. It had been nine months since Marian’s husband had died in a freak accident involving a gas explosion at a house he was listing. Left with two young sons to raise, Marian now owned and operated the real estate company that had belonged to her husband before his death.

The company, according to Bitsy, had been failing miserably before Bill’s death, and Bill, according to the gossip mill, had either been outright murdered or had staged an elaborate suicide to look like an accidental death in order for Marian to collect his life insurance.

Charlotte chose to believe that Billy Joe Hebert’s death was simply a tragic accident. Nothing more, nothing less. The death of a loved one was hard enough to cope with without adding speculations that could do nothing but hurt the family even more, especially when there were children involved. Each time she thought about how vicious rumors and gossip could be, it left a sour taste in her mouth.

“B.J. did it again,” Marian continued in a quavery voice as she closed the door. A tear slid down her cheek. “What am I going to do about that boy?” she cried.