“Oh, Aunt Charley . . .” Judith slipped her arm around her aunt’s shoulder and squeezed gently in sympathy. Then, with a nudge, she guided her away from the crowd, toward the shade of a nearby oak that draped over the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you worked for the Dubuissons. But it was Jackson, Aunt Charley. Jackson Dubuisson was the one murdered.”
Though some of the tightness in Charlotte’s chest eased a bit, she still felt sick at heart for the Dubuisson women . . . Jeanne . . . Anna-Maria . . . And yes, even Clarice, despite the old woman’s rudeness and obstinacy. Losing a loved one or someone close was never easy under any circumstances, a fact she’d had to deal with personally more times than she cared to think about. But murder ...
“According to the preliminary reports,” Judith continued, “he was murdered sometime near midnight or early morning. His wife, Jeanne, was the one who found him in the library.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Oh, poor, poor Jeanne. How awful for her.”
“Yes, I’m sure it must be a terrible thing—”
“Hey, Monroe, you coming or what?”
Both women turned to face the man Charlotte had seen with her niece in the car.
“That’s Lou—Louis Thibodeaux,” Judith told her aunt. “Lou is my new partner till he retires at the end of the year.”
Though Judith’s new partner was a stocky man with gray hair and a receding hairline, Charlotte noted that for an older man, he was somewhat attractive in a rugged sort of way. At least his belly didn’t hang over his belt like so many men her age, she thought.
“Go ahead, Lou,” Judith called out. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Louis nodded, and Judith turned her attention back to her aunt. “I need to get to work now. You gonna be okay?”
Charlotte shrugged. “It’s just such a shock.”
“Do you need me to walk you to your van?”
“No.” Charlotte firmly shook her head. “What I need is to see Jeanne Dubuisson, to talk to her.”
Judith frowned, her expression filled with regret. “Oh, Aunt Charley, I can’t let you do that, not yet. Go on home for now.”
“But you don’t understand. Jeanne has no one to—” Charlotte bit off the words spilling out of her mouth.
“What? No one to what? Aunt Charley.”
“Nothing.” Charlotte lowered her gaze. “Never mind,” she said, realizing that there was no way she could explain about Jeanne, no way to explain that she had no one to confide in or turn to in a crisis, no one except possibly her maid. No, she couldn’t explain, Charlotte decided, not without betraying the confidences that Jeanne had placed in her.
Charlotte tried another tack. “Surely you could bend the rules just this one time. I just need to talk to her for a moment, and I promise I won’t get in the way.”
“You know I can’t, Aunt Charley. Not even for you.”
One look at the strained expression on Judith’s face and remorse shot through Charlotte. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. It’s just that— that—” Charlotte shrugged, at a loss for words. How could she explain when she didn’t quite understand it herself?
“It’s just that you care about them,” Judith offered softly, gently.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes—yes I do.” She paused. “Maybe you could at least pass along a message for me. Would that be okay?”
Judith nodded. “I think that would be just fine.”
“Just tell Jeanne to call me if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all.”
Charlotte was used to staying busy. Since she had worked Saturday for Bitsy, she had expected to be off on Tuesday, her regular day to clean for the old lady. But she hadn’t expected to be off two days in a row, and she found herself at a loss as to what to do.
For one thing, the house was quiet . . . too quiet. And lonely. Not even Sweety Boy’s antics and chirps seemed to help.
There was plenty that needed doing, though, projects she’d been putting off due to lack of time . . . recording and totaling the month’s receipts for tax purposes . . . taking inventory of her supplies . . . working on a bid for the Devillier job Cheré had told her about. And laundry, a large pile of dirty laundry that she’d had to ignore due to her unusually busy weekend, was still waiting for her beside her washing machine.
Charlotte tried to occupy both her time and her mind both days. Her daily thirty-minute walk helped somewhat, but concentration on anything for very long proved to be impossible. Her thoughts kept returning to the Dubuisson women. All she could think about was what Jeanne, Anna-Maria, and Clarice must be going through, how they were coping, and what, if anything, she could do to help ease their suffering.
But guilt plagued her, too, guilt for being so relieved that Jackson had been the victim instead of one of the women. And she kept remembering the last time she had seen Jackson alive. In her mind’s eye, she could still picture him dancing with Sydney Marriott on Friday night at the Zoo To Do, then, later, arguing with Sydney’s husband, Tony.
And during those two days, as she waited, she kept hoping that Jeanne would call, yet dreading it at the same time.
By Tuesday afternoon, her nerves were stretched to the limit. Each time the phone rang, she felt a fresh wave of apprehension sweep through her.
Deciding that she’d just about had all she could stand and that taking yet a second walk might relieve some of the tension, Charlotte was lacing up her tennis shoes when the phone rang.
Once again, hoping the caller was Jeanne, she rushed to the phone and snatched up the receiver.
“Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re home.”
Bitsy. It was only Bitsy Duhe, and Charlotte almost groaned out loud with frustration.
“Don’t you work for the Dubuissons?” the old lady asked.
Bitsy knew good and well that she worked for the Dubuissons, but Charlotte’s vast experience in dealing with the old lady had taught her a few tricks about handling her. “Now, Miss Bitsy, you know I don’t talk about my clients.”
“Oh, Charlotte, don’t be silly. Of course you talk about your clients. Why just Saturday you and I were discussing the Dubuissons.”
Bitsy paused dramatically, and Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. The temptation to point out that Bitsy had done all the discussing about the Dubuissons was strong. She was also tempted to point out that except for a couple of questions about Brian O’Connor, who wasn’t a client, she’d simply listened. But Bitsy didn’t give her the opportunity.
“And speaking of the Dubuissons,” she continued, “that’s the reason I’m calling. Did you hear about Jackson? It’s all over the news and made the front page of the
Picayune.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, ma’am, I read the paper this morning.”
“Well, my goodness, Charlotte, give me the scoop. I figured if anybody knew anything, it would be you.”
Charlotte kept quiet on purpose and didn’t answer. If she knew Bitsy, whether she answered or not, the old lady would keep right on talking, anyway. And she wasn’t disappointed.
“The paper said a burglar broke in and killed him,” Bitsy continued. “But I’d be willing to bet, when all’s said and done, Tony Marriott was the one who did it, especially after that little show he put on Friday night. I’ve been thinking about calling the police myself—and you should think about it, too. After all, we were both eyewitnesses to that fight.”
Charlotte shook her head and had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that about a hundred other people witnessed the altercation, too.
“So how was your granddaughter’s visit,” Charlotte asked in hopes of changing the subject.
“Oh, it was fine, but listen, Charlotte, I can’t talk anymore right now. I think I’d better go ahead and make that call to the police. ‘Bye now.”
Before Charlotte had time to say anything, she heard the click on the other end of the phone line that indicated that Bitsy had hung up the receiver.
Charlotte took her walk, but it was just after the mechanical bird in the clock had finished singing the last of six cuckoos on Tuesday evening when the call from Jeanne finally came.
Chapter seven
“O
h, Jeanne, I’m so glad you called, and I’m so very sorry about Jackson.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.”
Though Charlotte wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected Jeanne to sound like, a puzzled frown crossed her face when she heard the calm, matter-of-fact tone of the younger woman’s voice.
“Are you okay?” Charlotte asked her.
“I think the standard answer is that I’m doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened. Something wasn’t right here, she thought. Was it possible that Jeanne might still be in shock? After all, what woman wouldn’t be after finding her husband murdered? And different people reacted to traumatic events in different ways.
Then another thought occurred to her. Maybe Jeanne had been given something, some type of medication, to keep her calm.
“The reason I’m calling,” Jeanne continued, “is to ask a favor. The police have finally finished gathering their evidence—thank God, they’re finally gone. But they’ve left a mess, and I don’t think I can—I just can’t—”
The break in her voice, followed by the ensuing silence, was telling, and Charlotte found that she was relieved to know that Jeanne wasn’t quite as cool or calm as she had first seemed. Surely, a certain amount of grief and emotion had to be healthier than keeping everything bottled up inside.
“I can come right over and clean it up for you if you need me to?” Charlotte offered.
A sigh of relief whispered through the telephone line, followed by a simple “Thank you.”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes will be fine, but I have to warn you, there are reporters all over the place. Maybe it would be best if you came in the back way.”
Charlotte spotted the reporters camped in front of the house the minute she turned onto Jackson Avenue. The way they were standing around, clustered in small groups, reminded her of paradegoers during Mardi Gras, the kind who always arrived early so they could stake claims on the most advantageous spots to watch the parades.
Deciding the best bet was to park on the next block, she kept driving. “Bunch of vultures,” she muttered as she drove past them. It was bad enough that the Dubuisson women had to cope with such a tragic loss, but to have to endure being held prisoners in their own home by the news media was the pits. Just the sight of the reporters made her angry enough to chew nails.
Still seething, Charlotte found a parking spot on Philip Street and grabbed her supplies. Ever wary of the reporters, she hurried down the street to the back entrance gate of the Dubuisson mansion.
The moment she pressed the buzzer on the gate, it clicked open, so she figured that Jeanne must have been watching for her from the kitchen window.
Looking dry-eyed and stoic, Jeanne was standing at the back door when Charlotte crossed the deck. In contrast to her expression, for the first time that Charlotte could remember in the five years she’d worked for the Dubuissons, Jeanne looked almost rumpled. Her makeup was sparse and blotchy, and though the casual olive slacks and ivory blouse she wore weren’t exactly wrinkled, the elegant, polished look that Charlotte had grown used to seeing was missing, all a sure sign of the turmoil that the poor woman had been through.
Charlotte almost reached out to Jeanne to give her a sympathetic hug, but she hesitated. One look at the rigid set of Jeanne’s shoulders along with the strained expression on her face made Charlotte change her mind. “How are Anna-Maria and Miss Clarice?” she asked gently instead.
The line of Jeanne’s mouth tightened. “Not well, I’m afraid.” She signaled for Charlotte to come inside the house. “Anna-Maria went into hysterics yesterday when she found out.” Jeanne firmly closed the door behind Charlotte and locked it. “The paramedics had to give her a shot to calm her down.” Her gaze shifted toward the ceiling, and for a moment, a tinge of sadness flickered in her eyes. “She’s upstairs in her room right now. Thank goodness she slept most of yesterday. But today was grueling, what with the police everywhere, asking all kinds of questions.”
“And Miss Clarice? Where is she right now?”
Jeanne drew in a deep breath and sighed wearily. Once again the lines of her mouth tightened. “In her bed,” she answered bluntly. As usual, she’s being her uncooperative self—refused to get up and has hardly touched a bite yesterday or today.”
As understanding slowly dawned on Charlotte, her heart went out to the younger woman. No wonder Jeanne seemed so cold and aloof. She was hanging on to her own emotions by a thread. With the other women in the family so distraught, someone had to hold things together, and unfortunately for Jeanne, she was the one elected.
Though Charlotte had never experienced having a loved one murdered, she had experienced a situation very similar to Jeanne’s when both her parents had died in a fatal airplane crash. Their deaths had left her with the total responsibility of caring for her sister, Madeline, then only fifteen, as well as Hank, who had been a toddler at the time. She could well remember that horrible, crushing feeling of being the person everyone else depended on.