Dusted to Death (16 page)

“Thanks for talking to us,” Charlotte called out.

“Sure thing,” Sally said. “And you—” She poked Benny in the chest with her forefinger. “Don’t be a stranger. I still need a date for the reunion.”

Back at the hotel, Charlotte and Benny briefly debated whether to stay another night or go home.

“I don’t think staying will do any good,” Charlotte told him, “and I’d really like to sleep in my own bed tonight. But we’ve already missed the hotel’s checkout deadline, and I hate to pay for another night without using it.”

“Don’t worry about that. Angel’s picking up the tab for this trip. If you want to go home, then we’ll go home.”

During the trip back to New Orleans, the gloom that filled the limo was thick enough to cut with a knife. Benny said very little and seemed resigned to the fact that there was nothing more they could do to prove Angel’s innocence. Oh, how she wished that there was something she could say or do to snap him out of his blue funk, but for one of the few times in her life, no words of encouragement came to mind. Truth was, she was just as depressed as he was about the whole matter.

Charlotte turned her head to stare out of the passenger window. The Mississippi landscape of green, forest-filled rolling hills along the interstate flashed by and seemed to go on forever and forever. In her mind’s eye, though, she kept getting a different kind of flash. For some reason she kept seeing the newspaper picture of Alex Scott.

If not for the strange reaction of Dawn’s stepfather, not to mention the townsfolk, after her inquiry about Alex Scott, she probably would have passed it off as just another case of her imagination working overtime. But their reactions, along with what Sally had told her about Dawn and Alex, explained a lot. If what Sally said were true, then Dawn was smitten with Alex. So why so open that first time, and yet she’d disappeared? If Dawn truly cared about Alex and believed in his innocence, one would think that she’d want the truth to come out.

Charlotte grimaced. She wished she could just forget about it, but like with a dog chewing on a bone, something about the whole thing kept gnawing at her very being.

B
y the time Charlotte and Benny exited off Causeway Boulevard onto the interstate, the sun was fast sinking in the west, and Charlotte had come to a decision. More than ever, she was determined to find Alex Scott. Every instinct within kept insisting that he was the key to solving Nick Franklin’s murder and proving Angel’s innocence.

Except to ask her what she’d like to eat for dinner when they had stopped in Hammond, Benny had continued his brooding, silent vigil during the trip. He was busy negotiating through the heavy traffic because of road construction on the interstate when she turned toward him. “Just so you know, I’m not throwing in the towel yet,” she told him. “I still think the key to all of this is Alex Scott.”

“Maybe,” he commented without much enthusiasm.

“No ‘maybe’ about it,” she retorted. “It may seem silly, but I know I’ve seen him before—or at least someone who resembles that newspaper picture of him.”

Benny sighed deeply. “Miss Charlotte, I know you mean well, but that picture is at least ten years old. Most people change a lot in ten years. Besides—and I’ve been thinking about this a lot—none of that helps explain why Angel’s fingerprints are on that letter opener.”

She’d almost forgotten about the stupid fingerprints, mainly because she couldn’t think of a logical explanation, other than Angel having used the letter opener in the scene that had been shot the day before the murder was discovered.

“As for the fingerprints on the letter opener,” she said, “I haven’t quite got that figured out yet, but I’m sure there’s a logical reason for Angel’s prints being the only ones found on it. And you’re right, people do change over the years,” she agreed.

She still remembered her ten-year high school reunion as if it were yesterday. If it hadn’t been for the name tags that everyone wore, there were several people she would never have recognized.

“But that picture and Alex Scott are the best leads we’ve got right now,” she continued. “Especially after what Sally told us. Alex Scott is out there somewhere. Right now, other than Bruce King, the Scott boy seems to be the only other suspect who might have had a reason to murder Nick Franklin and set Angel up to take the blame.”

“So, what next?”

“Remember me telling you that my sister is pretty good at finding stuff on the computer?”

Benny nodded.

“First thing tomorrow I’ll go over to her place and see if she can get me that telephone list for all of the A. Scotts in the Hollywood area. I’d do it tonight, but it’s been a long day, and frankly, I’m bone-tired.”

Charlotte figured the phone list was a long shot, at best. There were too many variables to even think about it, but to add further aggravation, Benny’s only response was a lackluster “Whatever” and a halfhearted shrug.

Charlotte felt her temper rising. What she’d like to do was shake some sense in him. Instead, she took a deep breath, prayed for patience, and then said, “Meanwhile, I want you to visit Angel and press her about Nick Franklin and what happened the night of Alex Scott’s party. Maybe once Angel knows that we found out about that entire incident, she’ll finally open up.”

For several minutes Charlotte waited for a response from Benny. When he didn’t give her one after what she deemed was plenty of time, she decided she’d have to pin him down.

“Will you do it?” she asked pointedly. “Will you go see Angel and question her about Alex Scott’s party?”

Still, Benny hesitated. Then, after a moment, he sighed heavily and said, “Yeah, I’ll go see her.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “And will you push her about that party?”

“I said I’d go see her,” he retorted sharply.

Her patience about worn thin, Charlotte bit her bottom lip to keep from lashing back at him. She was tired and frustrated. Besides, none of this investigation stuff had been her idea in the first place. After all, Benny had been the one who had approached her about helping, not the other way around. The least he could do was cooperate. Even so, from experience, she knew that it took two to argue, and arguing would only further frustrate the both of them; plus, arguing wouldn’t get the job done. Now that she was in this mess up to her eyeballs, she needed his help.

Instead of arguing, she threw his own words back at him. “Whatever,” she replied.

When Benny finally pulled the limo into Charlotte’s driveway, the first thing she noticed was the absence of Louis’s car. Though she felt somewhat relieved, surprisingly she also felt an odd twinge of disappointment. She had dreaded having to explain why she’d reacted the way she had during their last phone conversation, mainly because she still wasn’t sure why she’d done so. But she did owe him an explanation and probably an apology for the things she’d said. She was just relieved that she didn’t have to do it tonight.

No probably about it
.

Picky, picky
. Okay, so she
definitely
owed him an explanation and an apology.

Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today…the sooner, the better
.

Maybe she should call him instead of waiting until he got home. But what would she say? She set her chin in a stubborn line. Best to wait…at least until she came up with a viable explanation.

Coward
.

Yep, that’s me
, she thought as Benny retrieved her luggage from the trunk of the limo and carried it to her front door.

She unlocked the front door and, with her hand on the doorknob, turned to Benny. “Now, don’t forget what I said about paying Angel a visit.”

“I won’t, and by the way, I’m sorry for being so snippy a while ago. I guess I’m tired too, but mostly I really,
really
hate going to see her empty-handed. I had hoped to have some good news for her.”

Aha, so that was his problem. Almost immediately, like the thaw after a snowstorm, the tension between them melted. Now she understood. He had hoped to come back a hero, had hoped to find something that would set Angel free. Charlotte reached out and squeezed his arm. “Don’t give up yet. There’s still time. And who knows, maybe she’ll slip up and actually reveal something helpful?”

Though Benny finally nodded, she could tell that he’d rather eat worms than have to visit Angel for the express purpose of pumping her for information.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “thanks for trying, and get some rest.”

“You too,” Charlotte told him.

Benny turned away, and like a man being led to the gallows, he walked slowly across the porch and down the steps.

With a sigh, Charlotte shoved the front door open, then grabbed the handle of her suitcase and pulled it inside the living room.

Upon entering the room, she immediately spotted the birdseed scattered all over the floor. Immediate panic raced through her and all thoughts of Benny and Angel disappeared. She jerked her head toward Sweety Boy’s birdcage. Thank the good Lord, the little bird was still there in his cage where she had left him, and he seemed to be just fine.

Charlotte let her breath out in a swoosh of relief. “Hey, Boy, what’s all of this?” She motioned toward the floor. In addition to birdseed and hulls all over the floor, the little parakeet had also shredded the newspaper in the bottom of his cage. She shook her forefinger at him. “You nearly scared the daylights out of me.”

Only months earlier, thanks to Louis’s ex-wife, the little bird had come up missing and Charlotte had spent several agonizing days searching for him before he’d showed up on her doorstep. Ever since then, she had been a bit overprotective toward him.

Charlotte had heard of pets, mostly dogs and cats, getting angry with their masters for leaving them alone and destroying furniture and such, but she’d never heard of a bird acting out or trying to destroy anything.

Then, as if the little bird wanted to confirm why he’d done what he’d done, he chirped, “Missed you, squawk, missed you.”

Charlotte’s throat tightened a moment; then she laughed. “I missed you too, you little scamp,” she muttered.

With a shake of her head, she deposited her suitcase near the doorway leading back to her bedroom, then walked over to the bird’s cage.

“Yep, I missed you.” She reached through the cage wires with her forefinger, and Sweety immediately sidled over close. “And I know you missed me too,” she continued, gently rubbing his head. “But did you have to make such a mess? Just don’t do it again or next time I’ll leave the cover on.” Just before she’d left with Benny for Mississippi, she’d purposely turned the air conditioner thermostat up. Since the house would be warmer than usual, she had decided to leave Sweety’s cage uncovered.

“Yeah, next time I might just leave you in the dark,” she told the little bird. Whether the bird understood anything she said, she hadn’t a clue, but talking to him beat talking to herself.

With a shake of her head, she gave him one last rub, then headed for the kitchen, where she retrieved her broom and dustpan. “Just what I wanted to do tonight,” she complained when she returned to the living room. “Clean up a mess.” Still, it was good to know that someone missed her, even if it was just her little bird.

As she passed by her desk, she noticed that the light on the answering machine was blinking like crazy. “Uh-oh, Sweety, looks like more than just you missed me as well.” She counted the blinks and groaned. “Lots more.” So why hadn’t they simply called her on her cell phone?

She glanced over at her purse. Maybe they had and she hadn’t heard it ring. Curious, she walked over to her purse. Propping the broom against the wall and setting aside the dustpan, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open.

“Uh-oh,” she groaned. No wonder she didn’t hear it ring. She’d been so upset by Louis’s phone call on Sunday, she’d completely forgotten that afterward she’d turned off the phone and had never bothered to turn it back on.

With another groan, she flipped the phone closed and dropped it back inside her purse. Grabbing the broom, she began sweeping up the birdseeds and hulls. Not only did she have a lot of calls to return, but more than likely, she’d have lots of explaining to do, especially since she hadn’t bothered telling anyone about her impromptu side trip to Mississippi. It was a wonder they hadn’t filed a missing person’s report to the police.

“‘Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do!’” Charlotte giggled at her own botched imitation of Ricky Ricardo’s Cuban accent in the old
I Love Lucy
TV series. Yes, she had some ’splainin’ to do, but not tonight, she decided, as she bent over and swept the birdseed and hulls into the dustpan.

Tonight, she intended on getting a good night’s sleep, because once she did start making phone calls, she needed to be fresh with a clear, sharp mind. Tomorrow morning would be plenty of time to listen and respond to the messages…and get chewed out for not letting anyone know that she had decided to leave town for a couple of days.

Charlotte walked into the kitchen and dumped the contents of the dustpan into the trash. For tonight though, she was going to bed. The bed in her hotel room had been comfortable enough, but no bed, no matter how comfortable, was as good as sleeping in her own bed.

Back in the living room, she rechecked the deadbolt on the front door, then picked up her suitcase. “Good night, Sweety,” she called out as she switched off the living room light.

Once she was in bed, though, Charlotte’s mind raced. Mental images of Angel in her orange jumpsuit, the bloody letter opener lying on the floor beside Nick Franklin, his dead eyes staring into eternity, and the old newspaper picture of Alex Scott, all flashed through her mind over and over like a broken movie reel.

Overtired, Charlotte decided, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. She was too tired too sleep, if such a thing were even possible. With a groan, she flipped onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling.

Just breathe deeply and try to relax.

Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she repeated the process. Outside, the Doberman across the street barked. In the distance the faint sound of a siren grew louder, then finally faded away.

Inside, Charlotte took another deep breath and let it out slowly, then flipped over onto her side again. Why on earth was it so hot and stuffy? Had she remembered to readjust the temperature of the air conditioner?

Just about the time she’d decided that no, she hadn’t readjusted the air conditioner thermostat and she’d have to get up and adjust it, she suddenly froze. A second later, she sat straight up in bed.

“That’s it!” she cried. “The pearl necklace—that has to be the answer.” In the darkened room she grinned. She’d been obsessing about Angel’s fingerprints on the letter opener being smeared. But it didn’t matter whether her fingerprints were smeared or not, now that she’d figured it out. What was it that Heather had told her on that very first day?

“We always keep duplicates of a major prop in case they have to shoot the scene over.”

Yep, that was it, and that meant that at least two other identical letter openers existed besides the one found by Nick’s body.

Excitement thrummed through Charlotte. The killer could easily have stabbed Nick with one of the other letter openers, and then carefully smeared blood on the one that Angel had used in the scene shot the day before Nick’s body had been discovered and placed it beside Nick’s body. Just like in the movies, the killer had set up his scene.

She’d been so worried about telling the detective about Angel using the letter opener in the scene the day before the murder that she’d completely forgotten to tell him about the identical props…and evidently, no one else had thought to tell him as well.

What was that old saying? Something about things are seldom what they seem. What she needed to do now was locate those other letter openers.

Yeah, right. What makes you think that the police are going to just let you waltz into Bitsy’s house and snoop around?

“Good point,” Charlotte whispered as she slipped out of bed and headed for the thermostat located in the living room to check the temperature.