Death Tidies Up (5 page)

In keeping with the luxurious ambience of the house, along one wall was an Empire chaise longue upholstered in a bluish-green brocade with dark gold trim. Two matching, gilded lyre-back chairs flanked a small marble-top table on the opposite side. On top of the table was a gorgeous Tiffany-styled lamp.

Charlotte frowned. Why on earth had they already delivered the furniture, especially the lamp? All of that should have been delivered after her crew cleaned up. She swiped her finger along the back of the chaise longue. At least it was protected with a clear plastic wrap. Good thing it was, since the dust was as thick as mud. Her gaze strayed to the lamp again. She'd have to caution her crew to be careful around that lamp. It looked expensive, and she didn't want to have to replace it if someone got careless and broke it.

Eager to explore the rest of the house, and ever conscious of time passing, Charlotte dropped the keys in one side of her apron pocket and removed her notebook and pen from the other side.

The downstairs was divided into two small apartments, each almost identical and each consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combination living area and small galley-type kitchen. What truly impressed her and surprised her was the luxuriousness of each apartment. As in the grand entrance hall, great care had been taken to preserve and restore the original structure, and the workmanship was superb.

As she toured the first downstairs apartment, she was relieved to note that though it was certainly dirty, the cleanup work would be mostly routine stuff. And if the rest of the apartments were like the first one, there was a good chance that most of the work could be completed on Saturday. She might not need the crew for Sunday too, which would mean more money in
her
pocket.

Judging by the looks of the living room, the degree of cleaning needed in the second downstairs apartment was much the same as the first. Except this one had mosquitos, she thought as she swatted at one buzzing her head then slapped at one that bit her ankle.

With a frown of annoyance, she glanced around. Where were they coming from? she wondered as she walked over to the windows in the living room.

Both windows in the living room were closed and locked, though, and it was in the bedroom that Charlotte finally located the entry source of the pesky insects. There was one lone window in the room, and not only was it raised a couple of inches, but the outside screen was missing as well.

On her pad, Charlotte jotted down a note to call Vince Roussel about the missing screen and the open window.

Once Charlotte had finished her inspection downstairs, she climbed the wide spiral staircase to the second floor. At the top landing she made a quick note to report a deep gouge in the wood on the sixth step that needed repairing.

Like the downstairs, the second floor was also divided into two apartments. The first one she walked through had the same layout as the two on the bottom floor, and again, she figured that the clean-up would be routine.

Because of the open window on the first floor, Charlotte made sure she checked all of the windows before doing her tour of the fourth and final apartment.

As she checked the last window in the bedroom, she suddenly realized that the very thing she'd feared had already happened. Twilight was gone, and darkness had set in for the night.

Even as an uneasy feeling crawled through her, Charlotte hurried across the hall to the final apartment. The moment she entered the apartment, though, she forgot about the dark, forgot about everything.

“What on earth?” she exclaimed as she stared at the living area.

U
nlike the other three apartments, the fourth had more in it than just grime and dust.

Several empty beer bottles littered one of the windowsills, and below the window on the floor there were a couple of empty food sacks, one from McDonald's and one from Popeye's. Besides the food sacks, a collection of wadded-up napkins and dirty plastic eating utensils also littered the floor.

Charlotte felt a sudden chill as she recalled the missing screen and open window downstairs. Had someone broken into the house or was the trash simply an oversight of the construction crew?

Even if there was an intruder, theft couldn't have been the motive, since there was nothing to steal…except the Tiffany lamp. Besides, a thief wouldn't take the time to eat and have a beer. She also dismissed the idea of vandalism. As far as she could tell, nothing had been damaged and there was no graffiti on the walls.

Though still a bit uneasy, Charlotte admonished herself for her overactive imagination. “You've been reading too many mystery novels again,” she mumbled. The trash was more than likely left by the construction workers. Nothing more and nothing less.

Even so, the uneasy feeling grew as she walked into the bedroom. One look at the small room was all it took to dismiss the possibility that workers had left the trash behind.

In the middle of the dirty floor was the distinct outline of a large rectangular area that was relatively free of dust, just the right size for a sleeping bag, and there were even more beer bottles and food sacks strewn about. To Charlotte, it looked suspiciously like someone had been staying there, camping out.

Like most large cities, New Orleans had its share of homeless people, and though Charlotte hadn't witnessed any hanging around the Garden District, she didn't dismiss the possibility that one could have migrated from the Quarter to the Garden District. And what better place to take up residence than in an empty house?

After checking the windows to make sure they were all locked, Charlotte went into the bathroom. “Now that's odd,” she muttered as she stared at a smear of something in the vanity sink that looked suspiciously like dried toothpaste.

Did homeless people brush their teeth? Somehow the picture of a tattered, dirty man brushing his teeth didn't quite fit the image she'd always had of a homeless person. But even more disturbing, she wondered if whoever was camping out in the house would return. She truly hoped not, at least not while she was there all alone.

Still, the thought that the intruder could return any minute chased her all the way down the stairs and out into the dark night. Only when she was once again safely locked inside her van and driving down St. Charles Avenue did she feel even a modicum of safety.

Whom should she call? she wondered as she slowed to a stop for a traffic light. Vince Roussel, Marian, or the police?

If Louis was home, she could ask him.

And since when did you start needing Louis' advice anyway, or any man's advice, for that matter?

Charlotte sighed deeply. Though she'd had her qualms about renting out the other half of her double to the detective, she had to admit it had been nice to know there was a man living next door. But not just any man. Louis could be exasperating at times and they'd butted heads on more than one occasion due to his chauvinistic attitude, but he was a man of principle, a man she could trust, a man she could learn to care about….

The traffic light turned green. Suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, Charlotte felt like squirming in the seat. On more than one occasion, her niece had taken delight in teasing her about her relationship with Louis Thibodeaux simply because she'd expressed her distaste for the man.

Or could it be that you like him a little too much?
Judith's teasing accusation played through her mind. Was her niece right about her feelings for the detective? Charlotte felt her face grow warm at just the thought.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “I'm too old for such nonsense anyway.” Besides, even if she'd had
those
kinds of feelings or thoughts about Louis Thibodeaux, he didn't feel that way about her.

And why would he after you told him off?

Charlotte still cringed each time she thought about that awful scary night. Even so, he'd deserved every scathing word she'd thrown at him. She'd caught his killer for him, then he'd treated her like a child who didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. To top it off, he'd purposely led her to believe that he was arresting her for interfering, just to teach her a lesson.

But she'd called his bluff and won, and since that night, they'd settled into an uneasy truce.

No, she thought. Louis Thibodeaux was the last person she'd asked advice from. But she could call Judith. She'd meant to call her anyway to grill her about her new partner, so this would be a good excuse.

Charlotte braked upon approaching her house. When she turned into her driveway, for a brief moment, her headlights flashed on the front porch. “Speak of the devil and he appears,” she murmured. There, sitting in the dark on her front porch swing, was the very man who had been the center of her thoughts.

A bit disconcerted, Charlotte swallowed hard as she pulled under the carport. She switched off the engine, then gathered her purse.

“Getting home kind of late, aren't you?” Louis called out when she rounded the corner of the porch.

Detecting just the slightest hint of censure in his tone, Charlotte felt her temper rise in response. Whatever time she chose to come home was really none of his business.

You're overreacting,
a little voice whispered in her head.
And you're just tired.

She
was
tired, she suddenly realized. Weary to the bone. Too weary to spar with Louis Thibodeaux. Ignoring the detective's question, she asked one of her own as she trudged up the steps. “How's the house coming along? I figured you'd still be working on it late tonight.”

“I ran into a snag and left early,” he told her. “The Sheetrock and paneling were supposed to be delivered early this morning—or so I thought. After a few calls, I found out different. Now they aren't being delivered until tomorrow afternoon.” He shook his head. “It's times like this that I wish I had a truck. If I'd had a truck, I could have gone after the stuff myself.”

“That's too bad.”

“Tell me about it. But hey, the day wasn't a total loss. Since there wasn't much point in hanging around the camp, I was able to stop off at Home Depot and pick up some tile and carpet samples, and some brochures on cabinets and fixtures. And—I might add—I had time left over to cook up a fresh pot of seafood gumbo. Have you eaten supper yet?”

“Supper? Ah…Why, no—no I haven't.”

“Well, I make a mean gumbo, but I never figured out how to make just a little. I've got enough in there to feed the whole neighborhood. So how about it?”

The backhanded invitation caught her completely off guard, and Charlotte hesitated.
So what's the problem, Charlotte? He's only asking you to share a meal with him.

The problem was Louis Thibodeaux. And the problem was her mixed emotions concerning the aggravating man.

But food was food, and there was nothing she liked better than a good seafood gumbo, so Charlotte forced her lips into a smile. “Let me get this straight. Are you inviting me to eat supper with you, or are you offering me leftovers?”

Louis chuckled. “Since I haven't eaten either, there are no leftovers yet, so I guess that means I'm inviting you to eat supper with me.”

“In that case, give me about ten minutes and I'll be over. I should check my answering machine,” she explained, “and I promised Sweety I'd let him out of his cage for a while tonight.”

“Sure, no problem. I still need to warm the French bread and heat up the gumbo anyway.” Louis shoved out of the swing and stood. “And speaking of that bird, how is the savage little beast?”

A smile pulled at her lips. “Aw, come on now. You're not still holding a grudge, are you?”

“Nope, but it will be a cold day in—Let's just say I won't be sticking my finger back inside his cage again any time soon.”

Louis' remark made her grin. The first time he had been introduced to Sweety Boy, the little bird had taken an instant dislike to him. To Charlotte's acute embarrassment, Sweety had attacked the detective and tried to bite a plug out of his finger. The only excuse Charlotte could come up with for the bird's behavior was that something about Louis must have reminded Sweety of his previous owner, a deadbeat tenant Charlotte had rented to. The tenant had not only mistreated the little parakeet but had trashed the place before skipping out on Charlotte without paying the two months' back rent he'd owed her.

Louis snickered. “I'm tempted to buy a cat and let him loose inside, just to aggravate the little sucker,” he continued.

Charlotte gave him her sternest look. “That would be grounds for immediate eviction.”

“Hey—” He threw up his hands. “Just kidding.”

Charlotte nodded. “Good. Now, is there anything I can bring over when I come?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Just bring yourself.”

“Be there in ten then,” she said. With a parting nod, she walked briskly to her front door, and Louis headed toward his side of the double.

As she unlocked the door, she wondered if she had time to take a quick shower. After working all day, then tramping through the dusty Devilier house, she felt as if she were carrying around half the dirt in the world.

All of her life, Charlotte had been blessed with the ability to accomplish a lot in a short space of time. Some called it having good organizational skills, and most of the time she considered it a plus, especially in her line of work. But at other times, like now, when she was dog tired, she considered it a curse, simply because her mind never stopped categorizing and organizing.

She'd told Louis ten minutes. Would that be time enough? “Why not?” she muttered. Since she didn't have to wash her hair, she could be in and out of the shower in five minutes…if she hurried. Checking her messages could wait until after supper, she decided. That way, once she'd checked them, she could go straight to bed.

The moment she entered the house, Sweety Boy burst into a series of chirps and whistles as he pranced back and forth on the perch in his cage. It was his usual routine, one meant to attract her attention.

“As for you”—she shook her finger at the little bird—“just be patient a few minutes longer, and I'll let you out when I leave again.”

 

“When you say ten minutes, you mean ten minutes,” Louis told her at the door. “And you changed clothes—” His eyes narrowed. “Don't tell me you took a shower too—not in just ten minutes.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Okay, I won't tell you.”

With a chuckle, he motioned for her to come inside. “That has to be a record of some kind, especially for a woman.”

Charlotte was able to bite back the sharp retort that came to mind, and she did her best to ignore his chauvinistic remark, but only because she was curious and much more interested in what he'd done in the way of decorating his half of the double than in chastising him.

It was the first time she'd been in the half he was renting since he'd moved. Though she'd rented it to him furnished, she noted that he'd added several pieces of his own furniture—a well-worn recliner, a bookshelf, and a gun cabinet—along with some paintings and sculptures. And it was hard to miss the large-screen television and state-of-the-art stereo system that took up almost a complete wall.

But the paintings were what really interested her. All but one, which was a portrait of a young girl, were magnificent wildlife scenes. Though the identity of the angelic child certainly stirred her curiosity, she was equally fascinated by the wildlifes.

She walked over to one in particular that depicted a Louisiana swamp scene. The artist had used various shades of grays, greens, and browns to capture just the right mood and essence of the murky, still waters of the swamp and the cypress trees dripping with lacy gray moss.

“These are breathtaking,” she told him. “And so realistic,” she added. Then she noticed the signature in the lower left-hand corner, and she frowned. “S. Thibodeaux. Any relation?” she asked.

Louis nodded. “My son.”

“Your son painted these? I didn't realize you had children.” Or even a wife, for that matter, she silently added.

“I don't,” he retorted. “Not anymore.”

Charlotte frowned. “You don't?” What on earth did that mean? she wondered as a sinking feeling of dread filled her. Was his son dead?

“What happened? An accident?” The second she asked, she immediately wished she hadn't. For a fleeting moment, so fleeting that she almost missed it, his dark eyes radiated pain and something else she could only describe as torment. Then, as if she'd dreamed it, the look was gone, replaced by a mask that was devoid of emotion.

“Sorry,” she quickly added. “It's really none of my business.” Though she'd often wondered if he'd ever been married or had a family, she'd never felt comfortable enough around him to just come right out and ask…until now. Of course it didn't necessarily follow that just because he had a child, he had to have a wife. After all, she'd never been married, but she had a son.

“No, it's not any of your business,” he told her bluntly. “And I
don't
like to talk about it,” he added, glaring at her as if daring her to contradict him.

“Sometimes talking helps,” she suggested softly.

“Not this time—and not to you. If I want to talk, I'll go to a shrink—a professional. Last time I checked, you don't qualify.” He stared hard at her for several heartbeats. Then, abruptly, he sliced the air with his hand, motioning toward the kitchen. “The bread should be ready by now, so we can eat. What would you like to drink?”