Dusted to Death (3 page)

With a shake of her head, Charlotte threw the dead bolt, then turned away and walked to the bedroom.

Something was going on with Louis, and just thinking about it made her all jittery inside. She could come right out and ask him, but ask him what? How on earth did a person even phrase that kind of question? Besides, knowing Louis, he would only tell her what was on his mind when he was good and ready.

M
onday was predicted by the weather forecasters to hit a three-figure heat index, but worrying about the heat was the least of Charlotte’s concerns as she drove toward Bitsy Duhè’s house. For one thing, she couldn’t stop thinking about Louis and wondering about his sudden need to kiss her at the drop of a hat. For another thing, she was more nervous about the job at Bitsy’s than she’d admitted to either herself or Carol.

She still couldn’t believe that finally, after all these years, she was actually going to meet Hunter Lansky in person. Well, maybe not “meet” him exactly. In her experience, the maid was the last person anyone paid attention to. But just the thought of being in the same room or even the same house with him was exciting.

Charlotte slowed her van to a crawl as she approached the block where Bitsy lived. “What now?” She narrowed her eyes against the morning sun to peer up ahead. She was only half a block from Bitsy’s house, and the entire width of the street was lined with barricades. As she inched the van closer to the barricades, she spotted a uniformed security guard headed her way. Tucked beneath his arm was a clipboard and he was motioning for her to turn around.

Charlotte shook her head, pushed the automatic window button, and waited for him to approach her van.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to turn around,” the young man told her. “Only approved personnel are allowed.”

“I guess that would include me, then,” she told him, noting that the logo on his shirtsleeve was Lagniappe Security, the same logo she’d seen on Louis’s uniforms. “I’m supposed to be working on the movie set today.”

“Name please and some ID.”

“Name’s Charlotte LaRue.” She reached for her purse. A moment later, she showed the guard her driver’s license.

The guard studied the license for a moment, and then scanned the list on his clipboard. With a nod, he said, “You’re clear.”

“So where am I supposed to park?”

“I’ll move the barricade, and you can park anywhere on that side of the street.” He motioned toward the right side. “Just don’t block any driveways.”

When he turned to walk away, Charlotte said, “By the way, my neighbor works for Lagniappe too. Maybe you know him. His name is Louis Thibodeaux.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, everyone knows Louis. We’re lucky to have him working for Lagniappe.”

Once through the barricade, Charlotte drove slowly until she spotted an opening. After several maneuvers, she squeezed her van into the space, but just barely, with little room left at either end of the van.

Once satisfied that she was close enough to the curb, she cut the engine and yanked the keys out of the ignition. “Good thing I can parallel-park.”

After retrieving her supply carrier from the back of the van, she locked the doors and trudged up the street toward Bitsy’s house.

As she approached the house, she slowed her steps. “Keystone Cops,” she murmured, her gaze taking in what appeared to be a myriad of people rushing to and fro. “Or Mardi Gras,” she added.

Electrical lines were strung all over the front lawn. Men toted in cameras; others, carrying various pieces of equipment, emerged from a huge moving van.

Charlotte searched through the crowd of faces and sighed. How on earth was she ever going to find the person she was supposed to report to, especially since Bitsy neglected to even give her the name of the person? Then, suddenly, she stopped; all she could do was gape at Bitsy’s house.

“Oh, wow!” A soft gasp escaped her. Bitsy’s house, a very old, raised-cottage-style Greek Revival, had never looked quite so magnificent. The peeling paint had been scraped and a bright fresh coat applied. Even the landscape had been clipped and pruned to within an inch of its life. For a moment Charlotte fancied that this must have been the way the old house had looked when it was first built, more than 150 years ago.

Still in awe of the exterior, Charlotte carefully picked her way through the people milling about as she climbed the steps up to the gallery. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her and the front door was wide open, so she kept going.

Once inside, she was again struck with awe. Though Bitsy had some nice pieces of antique furniture, Charlotte had noticed lately that the furniture had begun to look a bit dingy and worn.

Charlotte’s eyes grew wide as she glanced around. From what she could see, all of Bitsy’s stuff had been cleared out and had been replaced with gorgeous furnishings that looked brand-new, yet befit the era in which the house had been built.

So where was Bitsy’s stuff? she wondered. The very stuff that she had been hired to watch over.

“Hey, lady, who are you?”

Charlotte pivoted around at the sound of the voice and found herself facing a rail-thin man who was just a little taller than her own five foot three and looked to be in his early-to-mid thirties.

“Ah, I’m Charlotte—Charlotte LaRue—and I was hired to help keep things clean.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Hey, Jake, the maid’s here,” he yelled. To Charlotte he said, “Over there.” He pointed toward a group of people huddled near the end of the hallway. “Jake’s the tall dude with the bald head.”

Once Charlotte spotted the man he’d described, she said, “Thanks.” Charlotte was almost to the group when the baldheaded man broke away and met her halfway.

“You the maid?”

Still clutching her supply carrier, Charlotte nodded. “Charlotte LaRue.”

The man shrugged. “Whatever. Follow me.”

Whatever?
No pleased to meet you, how are you, or even kiss my foot. How rude! Probably one of those high-powered lawyer types, she figured; the kind used to people snapping to attention every time he entered a room.

Dodging two cameramen and their cameras, Charlotte followed Jake back to the kitchen. When she entered the room she noticed that it looked pretty much the same as it had always looked. Either the crew hadn’t gotten around to changing it or the kitchen wouldn’t be included in any of the scenes.

Bitsy would be relieved. There weren’t too many things that Bitsy truly valued in her home, but her vast collection of kitchen gadgets was at the top of the list, right there along with the portraits of her granddaughters that hung in the front parlor.

Jake walked to the table and unlatched a bulging briefcase. After thumbing through several file folders, he pulled one out. “You can store your stuff in that closet over there.” He pointed to the pantry. Tapping his foot, he waited impatiently until Charlotte had dutifully placed her supply carrier and purse in the bottom of the pantry and closed the door.

“Okay, I need you to sign the forms in this folder. Sign your full name wherever you see a red check mark.” He rummaged through the briefcase again, then placed another form on top of the folder. “Fill this one out for tax purposes,” he said, handing her a pen.

The stack of forms inside the folder was a bit daunting. She was tempted just to sign them and get it over with, but she’d learned a long time ago to never, but never, sign anything before reading it. She slid the forms over and pulled out a chair. Once seated, she began reading the top form.

“You’re going to read them?”

The man’s incredulous tone hit a nerve. Charlotte slowly raised her head. “That’s right.”

“Except for the tax forms, the rest are just release forms, lady.”

Charlotte gave the rude man a saccharine smile, and in a voice that belied the smile she said, “I
never
sign anything without reading it first.”

Jake rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and muttered several expletives that made Charlotte want to slap his face. “Watch your language, mister.”

“My—my language? You’ve got to be kidding?”

“Nope. I’m as serious as a heart attack.”

“Oh, sh—”

Charlotte threw up her hand, palm out, and shook her head. “Uh-uh—not that one either.” From the confused look on Jake’s face, it was more than evident that no one had ever attempted to correct his foul language.

“What are you?” he demanded. “Some kind of Puritan or something?”

An amused smile pulled at Charlotte’s lips. “‘Or something.’ Now—if you don’t mind, I’ll just get these read and signed.”

“Knock yourself out, lady, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than stand here and watch you read. When you’re finished, put the forms back into the file folder and leave them on top of my briefcase.”

This time Charlotte was the one who rolled her eyes. “Too bad that your mama never taught you any manners.”

Jake’s face suddenly flushed crimson. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Charlotte couldn’t tell, but she suspected the former, especially when he suddenly pivoted and stalked out of the kitchen.

Once Charlotte had finished with the forms and placed the folder on top of Jake’s briefcase, she went in search for someone who could tell her exactly what her job involved. She also wanted to find out where Bitsy’s belongings were stored.

The minute she stepped out of the kitchen, she heard a deep, male voice calling her name.

“LaRue—Charlotte LaRue. Anyone seen Charlotte LaRue?”

With a frown, Charlotte headed toward the sound of the voice. “I’m Charlotte,” she called out, searching for the person she’d heard calling her.

“Charlotte?”

The voice came from just behind her, and she whirled around. Standing within touching distance was one of the most gorgeous young men that she’d ever met. His hair was coal black, though just a bit long for her personal taste; yet, it seemed to fit him to a tee. But it was his eyes that held her gaze, eyes so darkly blue they were almost purple, and framed with long, thick lashes that most women would die for.

“Ah—I—I’m Charlotte,” she finally blurted out once she could breathe again.

“Hey, there, Charlotte.” He shot her a dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. “I’m Dalton, the prop manager. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here,” she said.

“Let’s get you introduced around, and then we can both get to work. But first, why don’t I tell you just a little about the movie?”

Charlotte grinned. “That would be great!”

“It’s basically a story of an overbearing man whose wife died in childbirth, and he’s left to raise his headstrong daughter alone. The story takes place during the daughter’s teen years and it’s basically an object lesson on the father learning to let go and the daughter learning to be more responsible.”

Charlotte nodded. “Sounds, ah—interesting. And of course Hunter Lansky is the father and Angel Martinique has to be the daughter.”

Dalton nodded. “Of course. But between you and me, it’s not all that interesting. But then, what do I know? I’m only the set prop manager.”

Silently, Charlotte agreed with him about the movie plot, but she simply smiled.

“Okay—now for those introductions.” Dalton nudged her forward.

After the first ten minutes of introductions, Charlotte figured out fast there was no way that she was ever going to remember the names of everyone. Then, across the room, she saw a familiar face, and she was suddenly hot and cold all over at the same time.

Hunter Lansky.

When she heard Dalton chuckle beside her, she figured she probably looked as starstruck as she felt.

“Don’t worry,” Dalton told her. “He has that effect on everyone.” Then, without warning, he called out, “Hey, Hunter, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

Charlotte felt like a giddy schoolgirl again as the man she’d once idolized turned and smiled, then headed toward them. But she wasn’t a goggle-eyed teenager any longer—hadn’t been for decades. And he was no longer a young, handsome movie idol. He was still handsome enough for an older man, but without the big screen and makeup, he was, after all, just a man. At least that’s what she kept telling herself as he approached them.

He held out his hand, and in that deep, mellow voice that had helped to make him so famous and had once sent shivers down her spine, he said, “Nice to meet you, Charlotte.” He enclosed her hand in his. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Taken aback, Charlotte frowned. “You have?”

Hunter smiled and nodded. “Ms. Duhè couldn’t sing your praises loud enough. And without you, we wouldn’t be able to use this lovely old house.”

Oh, dear Lord, there was no telling what Bitsy had told them. “Well, Ms. Duhè sometimes has a tendency to exaggerate a bit.”

Hunter chuckled. “And she’s humble,” he said to Dalton as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “I like that about a woman.” He released her hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sweet lady, I think makeup is waiting for me.”

“Of course.” With a sigh, Charlotte watched him walk away. “Such a nice man,” she said beneath her breath to no one in particular.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Dalton cleared his throat. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested.

Jolted out of her reverie, Charlotte nodded.

As they walked up the stairs, Dalton explained exactly what Charlotte’s duties would be. Though she tried concentrating on what he was telling her, her thoughts kept straying. What on earth had Bitsy said about her? Whatever it was, it seemed to have made a definite impression on Hunter Lansky, which was a good thing. At least she thought it was a good thing.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlotte, get a grip. The man is an actor, and everyone knows you can’t believe a word they say. Besides, remember? He’s just a man. He puts his pants on one leg at a time just like anyone else
.

Ignoring the aggravating voice in her head, Charlotte tried harder to pay attention to what Dalton was saying as they threaded their way through busy crew members in the hallway.

“In here—” Dalton motioned toward one of the bedrooms—“is Angel’s dressing room.”

“I thought actors and actresses always had their own small, private trailers.”

“Most of the time they do,” Dalton said. “But Angel—” He shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s different.”

The first thing that Charlotte noticed was that the bedroom, normally a guest room, had been stripped of all of Bitsy’s furniture and decorations. Instead, there were racks of clothes, a small refrigerator, a chaise longue, and a couple of extra chairs along with a styling chair that was positioned in front of a table and mirror that reminded her of a beauty shop setup. Also, stacked on the floor in the corner were several cases of bottled water. But it was the absence of Bitsy’s things that reminded her she needed to ask about the storage of Bitsy’s stuff.