Dusted to Death (4 page)

The second thing she noted was the attractive, young Hispanic woman who was busy organizing what appeared to be hundreds of exotic-looking beauty items on the table.

They were all so young, she thought, as she watched the woman. With the exception of Hunter Lansky, everyone she’d met so far was young enough to be her child, which made her feel really old by comparison.

Dalton motioned toward the woman. “That nice lady over there is Heather Cortez, Angel’s makeup girl. Heather, meet our cleaning lady, Charlotte LaRue.”

Charlotte smiled. “Nice to meet you, Heather.” But when Heather turned toward her, Charlotte’s smile faded a bit. Something about Heather’s face didn’t quite look right. One side appeared to be larger than the other side. Suddenly, realization hit Charlotte, and she sighed. It appeared to be larger because it was swollen.

Not again, she thought. It hadn’t been that long ago that she had seen something similar, one of her clients with the same type of injury. Though Heather had done an excellent job covering up what Charlotte suspected was a bruised face, there was no way to cover up the fact that it was also swollen. Like the other woman Charlotte had known, did Heather also have an abusive husband? And also like her former client, she couldn’t help wondering what kind of excuse Heather would have for the bruise.

When Dalton cleared his throat and wouldn’t look directly at Heather, Charlotte knew that she was right. Others had noticed as well.

“Heather will give you the lowdown about Angel’s stuff—what to touch and what not to touch,” Dalton told Charlotte.

Heather smiled back at Charlotte, but before she had a chance to even say hello, there was a loud commotion in the hallway, followed by raised, angry voices.

“Simon only wants the best for you,” a man yelled.

“I don’t care what Simon Clark wants,” a woman yelled back. “I don’t work for Simon.
He
works for me, so you go tell him to take that offer and shove it.”

“Uh-oh, the lovebirds are at it again,” Dalton muttered in an aside to Charlotte.

Lovebirds? Was he being sarcastic? Before Charlotte could decide one way or another, a beautiful young woman dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes flounced into the room. With her signature long, thick blond hair, her flawless complexion and perfectly shaped face, not to mention her large emerald-green eyes, Angel Martinique was immediately recognizable.

Unlike Hunter Lansky, Angel was just as breathtaking off-screen as on-screen. But for some reason, an old saying Charlotte used to hear her grandmother say came to mind.
Pretty is as pretty does
. And, at the moment, in spite of her beauty, Angel wasn’t very pretty.

Following close behind Angel was yet another handsome young man. This one reminded Charlotte of hot sandy beaches where the lifeguards were all hunks with bleached-blond hair and bronze bodies pumped up with rippling muscles.

“Now, now, honey, don’t be like that,” the man told Angel.

Angel plopped down into the padded swivel chair in front of the mirror and glared at her reflection. “Don’t ‘honey’ me, Nick Franklin,” she retorted. “Now go away. I have to be on the set in half an hour.”

“Can I at least tell him you’ll think about it?”

Angel whirled around. “I told you to go away,” she screamed at him. Then, without warning, expletives that would have made a sailor cringe spewed out of her mouth, all directed at Nick.

Charlotte froze. Every bit of PR that she’d seen about Angel had touted her as the wholesome girl next door, and without fail, all of her movies had been G-rated, family-type flicks. Either the real Angel had an evil twin or her PR people were doing what PR people do best: lying through their pearly whites.

“Okay, okay.” Nick threw up his hands in surrender and backed out of the room. “Just calm down, honey, okay? Calm down.”

Guess Dalton was being sarcastic after all, Charlotte decided. Surely, not even love could make someone take the kind of verbal abuse that Angel was dishing out.

The second Nick disappeared, Angel’s angry gaze settled on Dalton and Charlotte. “What do you want?” she snapped.

“It can wait,” Dalton answered quickly.

“Well, get out, then.” Dismissing them with a blink of her eyes, Angel whirled back around to face the mirror. “Heather, now!” she demanded.

As if she’d been given a direct order by a military general and totally ignoring Charlotte and Dalton, Heather immediately snapped to attention. She quickly slipped a headband over Angel’s head to hold her hair back, and began working on Angel’s makeup.

Dalton gently nudged the small of Charlotte’s back. “Time to go,” he told her in a low voice, as he guided her through the doorway into the hall. “You’ll need to talk to Heather later, but now is not a good time.”

Unlike before, the hallway was almost empty…almost, except for the giant of a man standing next to the doorway.

Since the top of Charlotte’s head barely reached the man’s shoulder, she tilted her head back. The man was completely bald. Had to be shaved, Charlotte decided, since he was really too young to be bald naturally. The color of his eyes was almost as dark as his black slacks and skintight T-shirt, and his ham-hock arms were crossed against his broad muscular chest.

Mr. Clean
.

A grin twitched at her lips. Yep, he reminded her of the cartoon character in the Mr. Clean TV commercials.

When Dalton nodded at the giant and said, “Morning, Toby,” the giant didn’t respond. Dalton gave Toby a good-natured slap on his shoulder. “Toby here is Angel’s bodyguard and fitness trainer,” he explained to Charlotte. Then Dalton grinned. “And he’s also a man of few words.”

Bodyguard? So, where was Toby when Angel was arguing with Nick? Not knowing exactly how to react, Charlotte finally said, “Nice to meet you, Toby.” As he’d done with Dalton, Toby didn’t respond. With a shrug, Charlotte followed Dalton down the hall.

At the top of the stairs, they both paused.

“Ah, Dalton, before I forget, I need to ask you what’s been done with Mrs. Duhè’s furnishings.”

“No problem,” he said. “Everything’s been cataloged and stored in a climate-controlled storage van parked on the side of the street near the house.”

Vaguely recalling the large van that she’d seen when she’d first approached Bitsy’s house earlier, Charlotte nodded.

“And don’t worry. I’ll make sure that it’s all put back exactly like we found it once we’re done.”

“But how will you know where it all belongs?”

Dalton grinned. “We took lots of pictures before we removed the stuff.”

That made sense, she thought.

“And we have you as a backup to make sure that we get it right.” He paused a moment, then added, “One last thing, Charlotte. Don’t move or clean anything where we’re shooting unless I say so or without consulting me first. In fact, for right now, why don’t you just hang out up here until Heather is finished with Angel’s makeup? Once Angel leaves, then get Heather to fill you in about Angel’s stuff.”

Before Charlotte could ask Dalton exactly what he’d meant by “Angel’s stuff,” someone below yelled his name.

“Gotta run,” Dalton told her. Turning, he hurried down the stairs.

Once Dalton was out of sight, Charlotte glanced over toward Angel’s dressing room, where Mr. Clean still stood guard. Again, a grin twitched at her lips, but trying her best to keep a straight face, she reminded herself that the man’s name was Toby, not Mr. Clean. She’d have to be extra careful and remember that, lest she made a slip and embarrassed herself.

So now what? Glancing around, she weighed her options. Never one who enjoyed being idle, especially if she was on a paying job, she decided that she might as well go ahead and check out all of the other rooms on the second level while she waited for Heather to finish up with Angel.

Her ears tuned in to any noise that would indicate that Heather was once again available, Charlotte inspected each of the other rooms. With the exception of the master suite, which, like the front parlor, had been completely refurbished, the rest of the rooms looked the same as the last time she’d cleaned Bitsy’s house. Too bad she’d left her supply carrier down in the pantry. Though the rooms looked the same as far as furnishings went, she had noticed that they needed a good dusting.

Maybe later, she decided, as she stepped back into the hall. Glancing at Toby, she sighed. Since there was no way she wanted to wait outside the door with Mr. Clean, she headed back toward the stairs. Besides, she’d feel silly just standing there like a bump on a log. At least she could sit on the stairs.

As she eased down on the landing and leaned against the wall, below her, doors opened and closed, and occasionally, she caught a glimpse of someone hurrying past the foot of the stairwell. Then, a voice cried, “Quiet on the set,” followed by, “Cameras, action.” After several moments she heard the distinct rattle of dishes and concluded that the first scene was probably being shot in the dining room.

By her estimation, at least twenty more minutes passed before Angel finally emerged from her dressing room, only this Angel didn’t bear a whole lot of resemblance to the one that had entered the room earlier.

Gone were the jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and gone was the mop of flyaway hair. Instead, Angel was dressed in a standard Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform and resembled the sweet, girl-next-door image that she portrayed in all of her movies.

Charlotte got to her feet just as Angel and Toby hurried past her. Neither said a word nor offered a smile, and within seconds, they both disappeared down the stairs.

“Ms. LaRue?”

Charlotte turned to see Heather standing in the doorway of the dressing room. Smiling, she said, “Please, just call me Charlotte.”

“Okay.” Heather motioned for Charlotte to come closer. “I only have a moment, but I wanted to fill you in on Angel’s rules.”

“Her rules?” Charlotte followed Heather back inside the dressing room.

Heather nodded. “Angel is a very private person,” she told Charlotte, “and there are certain things that no one but Toby is allowed to touch—that’s rule number one.” She walked over to the chaise longue and motioned toward a small object near a throw pillow. “That’s one of them.”

The object turned out to be a small, well-worn stuffed animal, a bulldog wearing what appeared to be a school sweater. On the sweater, embroidered in tiny print, were the words OAKDALE BULLDOGS.

“Angel is a little superstitious and calls it her good-luck charm,” Heather explained. And this is another one of her do-not-touch items.” She pointed toward a framed picture that had been placed on the dressing table.

In the eight-by-ten framed picture was a young girl with an older couple, and they were standing in front of what appeared to be a small country church.

“Also,” Heather continued, “Angel is very particular about her drinking water.” She motioned toward the cases of bottled water. “No one touches her water supply. It’s a special brand she has flown in from the Swiss Alps.” She turned to face Charlotte. “Rule number two. With only the exception of certain people, no one else gets inside Angel’s dressing room. Those certain people include Toby Russell, her bodyguard, of course, and Nick Franklin—when he’s on good behavior, that is,” she added. “There’s also Andre Dubois, Angel’s personal chef, Simon Clark, her manager, Max Morris, the director, and Dalton.” Heather grinned. “And now you.”

Yeah, me
, Charlotte thought, wondering if there had been some kind of mix-up. Surely, they didn’t think that she’d been hired to be Angel’s personal maid. “Ah, Heather, just so there’s no misunderstanding, I was told that I was being hired to keep Mrs. Duhè’s house clean during the shooting.”

“Oh, sure—you were—but that also includes Angel’s dressing room. Oh, and there’s one other person I forgot to mention—Angel’s chauffeur, Benny Jackson.”

Charlotte frowned in thought. She’d heard that name before.

“Is something wrong?” Heather asked.

Charlotte shook her head and gave her a brief smile. “No. It’s just that the chauffeur’s name sounds familiar.” It was right on the cusp of her memory.

“Benny’s a sweetheart, and if I remember right, he’s originally from New Orleans.”

Like a streak of lightning, it suddenly hit Charlotte why she knew that name. “No way,” she murmured. After all, what were the odds?

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

Charlotte laughed. “Sorry, I have a bad habit of talking to myself sometimes. I was just wondering what the odds were that Angel’s chauffeur could be the same Benny Jackson who was once friends with my son, Hank, when they were still teenagers.”

Heather shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this Benny Jackson?”

Heather thought a moment, then said, “I’d say he’s in his early forties.”

Even with Heather confirming that the chauffeur was about the right age, Charlotte still had doubts that he could be the same person she’d known. The Benny Jackson that she’d known had been a troubled teenager who had come from a family known for their run-ins with the law. Considering his family background, she’d be surprised if he hadn’t ended up in prison…or in the graveyard.

“Well, I guess that’s about it,” Heather said, interrupting Charlotte’s thoughts. “If you have any questions, please feel free to ask me or Dalton.” She reached up and lightly smoothed her fingers over her cheek.

Ordinarily, the hand motion wouldn’t have attracted Charlotte’s attention, but since she’d already noticed that Heather’s cheek was swollen, she figured that Heather had to be checking for more swelling. Should she say something or not? If she said something, she risked being told to mind her own business, but if she didn’t say anything and something happened to Heather…

While Heather gathered up several beauty items and placed them in a small makeup carrier that resembled a tackle box, a battle waged within Charlotte.

“If you’ll excuse me now,” Heather murmured, “I should probably go down and check on Angel’s makeup.”

Say something. Say something now.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Heather, before you go, I do have a question.”