Dusted to Death (6 page)

Benny motioned toward the untouched food on her plate. “You better eat up. If I know Angel, she’ll be yelling for both of us once she finishes her lunch.”

Charlotte nodded and forked up a bite of the chicken and andouille jambalaya. Fork midair between her plate and her mouth, she asked, “So, how did you end up as Angel’s chauffeur?” While Benny talked, Charlotte savored each bite of the delicious jambalaya.

“I knew if I was going to make anything of myself, I had to get out of this place,” Benny told her. “Had to get away from my family. So, bright and early on the morning after I graduated, way before anyone was awake, I left town and headed for California.”

Though Charlotte wondered how Benny had gotten enough money to go all the way to California, she decided, given Benny’s background, it was probably best not to ask.

“I ended up in Hollywood,” he continued. “Took on odd jobs here and there. Even did a little panhandling for several years just to keep a roof over my head, until I finally landed a regular job waiting tables at a really nice restaurant. I’d worked at the restaurant about a year when Angel got hired to be one of the restaurant’s hostesses. With both of us being from the South and neither of us knowing anyone, we became friends. Back then, Angel was a wannabe actress trying to catch a break, and I had decided to save up enough money so that I could start taking classes at a junior college.”

Benny’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Those were some lean times for both of us, but we hung in there. Angel did finally get her big break and I enrolled in some night classes. I’d always been pretty good with numbers and fancied myself being a CPA.” He laughed. “Of course that didn’t last long. Once Angel hit it big, she talked me into taking the job as her chauffeur. As the old saying goes, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I figured if the gig with Angel didn’t work out, I could always go back to school. But—as you can see—it did work out.”

Charlotte scraped the last bit of jambalaya onto her fork. All of Benny’s talk about Angel’s success made her think about the incident with Bruce King. “Speaking of Angel, what can you tell me about a man named Bruce King?”

Benny made a sound of disgust. “Nothing good, I’ll assure you. Bruce King is a lying, low-life paparazzo who’s been dogging Angel’s footsteps since she made it big. Angel took out a restraining order and has had him thrown in jail a couple of times for violating it.” Benny shrugged. “But all that does is egg him on. It seems his main goal in life is to dig up dirt on Angel, whether it exists or not. That lunatic is obsessed with her.” He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “So, why did you ask about him?” He suddenly threw up his hand, palm out. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. He just happened to be hanging around when you left yesterday.”

When Charlotte nodded, Benny said, “So, what did he want?”

While Charlotte told Benny about her run-in with Bruce King, Benny finished eating. “Among other things,” she said, almost finished with her tale, “he wanted me—wanted to
pay
me—to find out what Angel’s real name is.”

At that, Benny grinned. “Only a handful of people know her real roots and her real name, and none of them are telling. It’s all part of Angel’s image mystique, and besides, those who do know value their jobs too much to tell. The beauty of it is that without her real name or her Social Security number, there’s no way King can find out anything about who she really is.”

At that moment, a noise like a dog barking came from Benny’s pants pocket. “Oops, speaking of the boss lady, I’ve got to run.” At the look on Charlotte’s face, he laughed. “The barking dog ring tone is an inside joke between Angel and me.” He got to his feet, then helped Charlotte up off the porch floor. “I’ll alert Security about Bruce King, but if you see him coming, go the other way. Don’t talk to him, but report him to either Toby or one of the Security crew.”

Again, the barking noise came from Benny’s pocket. “Gotta run now, but I’ll talk to you later.” He tossed his paper plate into the trash can and disappeared inside the house.

With a sigh, Charlotte dropped her paper plate and empty bottle into the trash, and she also headed back inside. The moment she entered the kitchen, she stopped in her tracks. Across the room, trapped in the corner by Angel’s manager, Simon Clark, was Nick Franklin. Since earlier she’d witnessed Nick being escorted off the property with her own two eyes, she couldn’t help wondering why he was back. How had he gotten past the security guards?

Not your problem. None of your business.

Doesn’t matter
, she silently argued with the irritating voice in her head.
No one ever pays attention to the maid anyway
.

Just keep walking, Charlotte
.

For once, Charlotte decided to listen to the irritating voice, but even from clear across the room, there was no way she could miss the furious look on Simon’s face, nor his aggressive stance. So, how many more people was Nick going to tick off before someone finally put him off the property permanently?

Charlotte was almost to the other door when out of the corner of her eye she saw Simon hold up a sheaf of papers and wave them in Nick’s face.

“I’ve warned you before to stop bringing in this trash,” Simon ranted, his voice growing louder with each word. Then, as if to emphasize his words, Simon stepped over to a nearby garbage can, lifted the lid, and shoved the papers inside. Immediately whirling back around to face Nick, he pointed an imperious forefinger at him. “Your little stunt this morning cost half a day of shooting. If I ever—
ever
catch you bringing Angel any more scripts, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.” Then he yelled, “Security! I need someone from Security!”

Charlotte hurried through the door and into the dining area, where she was met by two security guards that rushed past her. “Oh, brother,” she muttered. What was it going to take for Nick to get the message?

T
hanks to Nick and Angel’s fight, shooting had been delayed, so it was almost six that evening before Dalton finally told Charlotte that she could leave. Gossip had it that Angel had been too distraught to shoot at the scheduled time and had needed some “alone time” to rid herself of all the bad vibes. Personally, Charlotte thought it was all a bunch of hooey. For Pete’s sake, the woman was supposed to be an actress, wasn’t she?

Charlotte gathered her stuff from the kitchen pantry and headed for the front door. The moment she stepped out onto Bitsy’s front porch, a dark-haired woman dressed in a Lagniappe Security uniform approached her. Though she’d never really thought about it, Charlotte hadn’t realized that Lagniappe hired women as well as men to be security guards, especially women who looked like this one.

The young woman was in her early-to-mid thirties, just a bit taller than Charlotte, and probably didn’t weigh over 120 soaking wet. But even aside from her size, she had the face of an angel and didn’t look tough enough to hurt a fly. Still, if there was one thing that Charlotte had learned over the years, looks could be deceiving.

“Ms. LaRue?” the woman said.

Charlotte nodded.

“Ma’am, my name is Samantha O’Reilly, and I have instructions to escort you to your van and watch you until you vacate the property.”

“Vacate the property” had an ominous sound to it.
Uh-oh, am I being fired
? When Charlotte finally found her voice, she asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, no, ma’am—nothing like that,” the younger woman reassured her. “Mr. Jackson said that you were accosted yesterday by a reporter and he doesn’t want you to be bothered by the man again. Besides, Louis would have my hide if anything happened to you.”

Even as relief washed over Charlotte, it took a moment for what Samantha had said about Louis to finally sink in. Never mind that she hadn’t been too crazy about the job to begin with; she still didn’t want to be fired. Besides, it paid really well and was a nice break from her normal routine.

“So, you know Louis, huh?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. It was because of his recommendation that I was hired last year.”

Though Charlotte smiled at the young woman, her smile hid her thoughts. What on earth was Louis thinking, recommending this young woman for such a dangerous job? Why, she wasn’t as big as a minute. Still…Louis would never recommend someone if he—or she—weren’t qualified.

“So, are you ready to leave, ma’am?”

Reminding herself that what Louis did or didn’t do, as long as he kept out of her business, was none of her concern anyway, Charlotte sighed, and then nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I am. It’s been a long day for me. And by the way, I happen to be really partial to the name Samantha. I have a little granddaughter whose name is Samantha too.”

At home, Charlotte was tempted to go ahead and change into her pajamas. “Probably should eat a bite first,” she told Sweety Boy as she locked her front door and placed her purse on a nearby table.

Sweety Boy squawked, “Miss you, miss you,” as he sidled from one side of the cage to the other.

Knowing that his antics were his way to get her attention, Charlotte grinned and stepped over to the little bird’s cage. “I missed you too, you little scamp.” She took a moment to rub his head with her forefinger. “I know you’d like to get out and stretch your wings, but not tonight, Boy. Sorry.”

In the kitchen, Charlotte decided to fix herself a sandwich for supper out of some leftover chicken salad. Considering the large lunch she’d had, a sandwich and a glass of milk would be plenty. She had just smeared the chicken salad on a slice of bread when she heard a loud knock at the front door.

“Who on earth?” she murmured, quickly wiping her hands on a dish towel, then hurrying to the living room. When she peeped out the front window she saw a man in a uniform standing on the porch, and in his hands was a vase of beautiful spring flowers. Looking past the man, she saw a smaller van parked behind her van. On the driver’s door was the logo of a florist shop that she recognized as being local.

Shaking her head and with a frown of curiosity, Charlotte unlocked the door.

“Ms. Charlotte LaRue?” the man asked. When Charlotte nodded, he handed her the vase of flowers. “Have a nice evening, ma’am.” He backed away, gave her a smile and a two-fingered salute, then hurried down the steps.

Juggling the vase of flowers, Charlotte closed and locked the door. “Now, who in the world is sending me flowers?” she murmured. “And why?” It wasn’t her birthday, she hadn’t been ill, and it wasn’t Mother’s Day. Louis? “Not likely,” she whispered as she set the vase down on the coffee table and searched for a card.

When she found the small envelope and opened it, all that was on the card inside was a single sentence:
I’M A LITTLE LATE, BUT THANKS
.

“Hmm, no signature. That’s strange. And thanks for what?” She guessed she could always call the florist and find out who sent the bouquet. Yep, that’s what she’d do, but she’d do it tomorrow. For now, though, all she wanted was a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep.

According to local weather reports, Wednesday morning would be overcast, offering a small measure of relief from the heat. Although scattered thunderstorms were predicted throughout the day, on the tropical front, so far, so good. There were no signs of tropical storms or hurricanes in the Atlantic or the Gulf.

Just as Charlotte parked the van, fat raindrops began to fall, and distant thunder rumbled. By the time she’d unloaded her supply carrier and reached Bitsy’s front porch, the raindrops had turned into a downpour.

Standing on the porch was Samantha O’Reilly, her arms crossed against her breasts. “Good morning, Ms. LaRue,” she called out.

“Good morning to you too, Samantha. And please, just call me Charlotte.” Charlotte set down the supply carrier, then shook her umbrella, folded it, and then slipped it back inside its plastic casing. Though there were a few members of the crew huddled together on the porch, there were far fewer people scurrying around than during the previous two days.

Samantha walked over to where Charlotte was standing. “Tell you what,” she said. “Most of my friends call me Sam. So how about if I call you Charlotte, and you call me Sam?”

Charlotte nodded and gave Samantha a warm smile. “It’s a deal.” Then she motioned at the group standing near the end of the porch. “Where is everyone?”

“Big meeting in the front parlor,” Sam explained. “Every other day or so, they call everyone together for a status report.” She glanced away and scanned the parking area. “No sign of Bruce King, huh?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Nope. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him and hope I don’t.”

“Oh, he’s lurking around, somewhere. You can bet on it. Bottom feeders like him aren’t that easy to get rid of.” Sam sighed. “Now that you’re safe and sound, I’ve got to make my rounds. If I’m not here on the porch when you’re done, just wait for me before you take off for your van. See you this afternoon.”

Again, Charlotte smiled. Then her smile faded as it suddenly occurred to her that Samantha had been standing vigil, waiting for her to arrive. “Humph, my own personal security guard.” Thanks to Benny, or should that be thanks to Louis? Knowing that she’d only get annoyed if the answer were Louis, she decided that she didn’t want to know. With a shake of her head, she picked up the supply carrier and headed inside the house.

When she passed the entrance to the front parlor, the door was shut but she could still hear a faint murmur of voices coming through from the other side. A “big meeting,” Samantha had said.

With a shrug, she headed for the kitchen. Since there was no one around to give her instructions, once she had stashed her purse inside the kitchen pantry, she decided to help herself to a cup of coffee. While she drank her coffee and stared out the window at the pouring rain, she made up her mind that today she’d start cleaning upstairs first. Though she had left it all pretty clean before she’d gone home, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it a light cleaning again. Doing something was better than standing around doing nothing, and surely by the time she was done, the big meeting would be over.

In the habit of doing a walk-through before cleaning a house, Charlotte left her supply carrier near the top of the stairs and started down the hall with the master bedroom. While making mental notes as to what she needed to do, she thought she heard a noise, like the creak of a stair step. Going stone-still, she listened.

“Old houses, like people, creak with age,” she murmured, dismissing the sound.

After finishing her inspection of the master bedroom, she moved down the hallway and inspected the other rooms as well.

A few minutes later, she stood outside the last room, the guest bedroom that had been converted into Angel’s dressing room. Since the door was closed, Charlotte knocked lightly and waited a moment, just in case Angel was inside dressing. Just for good measure, she knocked again, a bit louder. Satisfied that no one was in the room, she opened the door. The first thing she noticed was that the room was in shambles again, only much, much worse than the previous day. The next thing she noticed was the smell. It was an odor she’d smelled before, one that was hard to forget.

The odor of blood and death.

A shiver of foreboding ran down her spine and her knees went weak.

“It’s just my imagination, just my imagination,” she chanted softly in an attempt to work up enough courage to enter the room. “There’s nothing wrong, just my imagination.” Finally, taking a deep breath, she stepped just inside the doorway. And she froze in place.

Just beyond the dressing table, lying on the floor, was a body. She recognized the man immediately. He was on his back, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Though most of the blood looked as if the rug had soaked it up, there was no mistaking the dark stains that spread out from his upper body.

Charlotte choked back a scream and her knees went weak. Beneath her breasts, her heart pounded like a jackhammer. “Oh, dear Lord in heaven,” she cried, grabbing the door frame for support.

Torn between screaming for help and checking out the person on the floor, just in case he was still breathing, she stared at the bloodstained rug. That’s when she finally noticed the letter opener on the floor beside the body. From the looks of it, she figured that, more than likely, it was what he’d been killed with. For some reason, seeing it reminded her of the many times that her police detective niece, Judith, had complained about well-meaning people messing up a crime scene. Still, what if he was still alive or simply needed CPR?

Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Charlotte forced herself to stare at him hard a moment more. Along with his open dead eyes, there was no movement around his chest area that would indicate he was still breathing. But unwillingly, her gaze kept returning again and again to the murder weapon.

What was it about the letter opener? She wrinkled her brow. Then she remembered. Unless she was mistaken, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t, the murder weapon looked like the exact same letter opener that Angel had used in the final scene that had been shot the previous day.

She’d first noticed the ornate silver letter opener when she’d dusted the library. She’d mostly noticed it because she couldn’t recall Bitsy ever owning one like it. When she’d mentioned it to Heather, the young woman had explained that it was one of the props. In the next scene to be shot, Angel’s character was supposed to grab the letter opener off the desk and stab an intruder.

A cold feeling of dread settled in Charlotte’s stomach.

Angel
.

Would the police find the actress’s fingerprints on the letter opener? Angel was known for her outbursts of anger. Was it possible that in a fit of anger the young woman had stabbed Nick, a case of real life imitating fiction?

“Surely not,” she whispered. Surely Angel wouldn’t be that stupid. Shoving the speculations to the back of her mind, Charlotte stared once more at the man’s eyes, eyes fixed in that eerie death stare. With a shaky sigh, she finally decided that the man was dead, had to be, so there would be no use for her tromping through the crime scene.

She stepped back out into the hallway and pulled the door firmly closed.

Call the police. Do it now.

She automatically reached inside her apron pocket. No phone. “Great,” she muttered as she realized that she’d left her cell phone in her purse downstairs. What to do, what to do?

Go get the security guards.

“Good idea,” she murmured. Obeying the silent voice of reason, she turned and walked quickly down the hallway. “In fact, excellent idea.” For her own sake, it would be much better if one of the security guards phoned the police anyway, especially considering the hassle she’d gone through when she’d reported Joyce Thibodeaux’s murder. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself again.

Snagging her supply carrier where she’d left it, she hurried down the stairs. When she reached the bottom floor, she set it down beside the staircase, and glanced around frantically for someone, anyone, to help. Since the parlor door was still shut, all she could do was assume that the meeting was still in progress. No way was she going in there. The security people could make that announcement…if only she could find one of them. So where were they? Maybe outside on the front porch…or in the parking area, for sure.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, the front entry door swung open, causing her to almost collide with Samantha O’Reilly.

“Whoa, hey, Charlotte, slow down.”

Charlotte grabbed hold of Samantha’s arm. “Up—upstairs, in Angel’s dressing room.”

“Just calm down,” Samantha soothed. “Calm down.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No—you don’t understand. You—you need to—to call the police. There’s been a murder.”