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.
“Ohl 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 . . .”