Dusted to Death (8 page)

Outside, the earlier storm had dissipated, leaving the sky overcast and the air heavy with heat and steamy humidity. Trying to ignore the commotion of the squad cars, the emergency vehicles, and the police who were dealing with the clamoring news media beyond the barricades in the street, she walked to the left side of the porch and stood staring toward the house next door.

Seeing the media was yet another reminder that she really needed to phone Bitsy, and the sooner the better. “No time like the present,” she whispered. She pulled her cell phone out of her apron pocket and scanned the list of names programmed into the phone until she found Bitsy’s cell number. Bitsy answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Bitsy, this is Charlotte.”

“Well, I was wondering when you were going to call me.”

Oh, no, did Bitsy already know about the murder?

“I’ve been dying to know what Hunter Lansky is like in person.”

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently, Bitsy hadn’t heard the news yet. “Bitsy, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Please don’t tell me that they broke something, or worse, that they burned my house down.”

Detecting the panic in the old lady’s voice, Charlotte quickly reassured her. “No—nothing like that. But brace yourself. There’s been a murder.”

“Did you say a murder?”

“I’m afraid so. One of Angel Martinique’s friends was found murdered in the upstairs guest room this morning—the guest room closest to the stairwell.” Knowing Bitsy and how she loved to gossip, Charlotte decided against telling her that she was the one who found the body. Telling Bitsy that would guarantee that everyone in New Orleans would find out.

“Which one of her friends? Was it her boyfriend? Do they know who did it?”

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment.
Oh, brother, here we go.

“Well, who was murdered?” Bitsy demanded.

Opening her eyes, Charlotte said, “I can’t tell you that, Bitsy.”

“Why the deuce not?”

“Because I was told by the investigating detective not to give out any names.”

“Well, surely he didn’t mean me. After all, it’s my house. Hmm, maybe I should take a cab and come over there.”

“No, Bitsy, don’t do that. For one thing, the police wouldn’t let you past the barricades, and for another thing, the media is all over the place.”

“They’re not in my house, are they?”

Again, the panicky sound. “No—they’re being held behind barricades.”

“How was this person killed? Is there blood everywhere?”

Ignoring the first question, Charlotte said, “Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.” Whether it was from the heat or from trying to keep up with Bitsy’s scattered thought processes, Charlotte could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

“I certainly hope so,” Bitsy retorted. “The rug in that room is an antique. I paid a fortune for it. But now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember if I kept the sales receipt or if it got lost during Katrina. That lawyer—Jake something or other was his name—anyway, he said that Mega Films would reimburse me for any damages, but I’ll need some way to verify the expense.”

Sweat trickled down Charlotte’s back, and her head was getting worse by the minute. If she didn’t end the call soon, Bitsy would be off on another tangent. “Listen, Bitsy, I’ve got to go now, but I mostly wanted to let you know what was happening before you saw it on the news.”

“I still think I should come over there.”

Emphasizing each word, Charlotte said, “Don’t—do that. I’ll keep you updated—I promise. Like I said, I’ve got to go. Bye, now.”

Charlotte quickly depressed the button to end the phone call and headed for the front door. The moment she stepped back through the doorway, the blessedly cool air inside engulfed her, and she sighed with relief. Now if only she had a glass of water and some Tylenol, maybe she could get rid of her headache.

It was late afternoon when Max Morris, the director, called everyone together and announced that, regretfully, shooting at the house would be suspended indefinitely until the police concluded their investigation. As soon as the police gave the go-ahead for the shooting to resume, everyone would be contacted.

Then Gavin Brown stood up. “All of you can leave now, but a word of caution. Don’t leave town and don’t talk to the news media.”

Over the course of the long day, Charlotte had a lot of time to think about all that had happened. Though she’d rather chew nails, like it or not, she was going to have to talk to Gavin Brown again. At some point, she needed to clean the room where the murder had taken place. Since Gavin Brown seemed to be the detective in charge, he would be the one who could tell her when she could get back inside the house.

While everyone else filed out of the room, Charlotte hung back, waiting for the opportunity to talk to the detective. It didn’t take him long to spot her, and once they made eye contact, she approached him.

“Thought of something else?” he asked.

“No, not really. I just need to know when I can get back inside to clean.”

He shrugged. “That all depends on the crime scene people. Give me a call in a couple of days. Anything else?”

Charlotte shook her head no, said, “Thanks,” then quickly left the room.

In the kitchen, several of the security guards were gathered around the breakfast table. When Charlotte entered the room to retrieve her purse from the pantry, the group glanced her way and suddenly went quiet.

After a moment, Samantha O’Reilly broke free from the group. “You leaving now?” she asked.

“Yes, finally.”

“Wait up a sec and I’ll walk you to your van.”

Considering the number of police officers still on the premises, Charlotte didn’t think an escort was necessary. Even so, she waited while Sam said something to one of the security officers, then rejoined her.

“This isn’t really necessary,” Charlotte told her as they stepped out into the wide center hall.

“Yeah, I know, but I need a break.”

The young woman sounded as tired as Charlotte felt. “Guess it’s been a long day for you too,” she offered as she bent down and retrieved her supply carrier that she’d left near the bottom of the staircase.

“Yeah, too long, and unfortunately, before it’s over, I’m afraid some heads are going to roll. I’m just glad that I wasn’t on duty last night.”

Up until that point, Charlotte hadn’t really thought about the repercussions for the security team. But it stood to reason that having a murder committed under their very noses would be a huge black eye for the Lagniappe Security Company. “I guess something like this could put a company out of business fast, huh?” she asked, thinking of Louis.

“I hope not. It’s a really great summer job for me.”

“Summer job?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I fill in for the regulars while they’re on vacation. Otherwise, during the school year, I’m a teacher.”

Later, as Charlotte entered her house, the sight and smell of the bouquet of flowers reminded her that she hadn’t gotten around to calling the florist. Glancing over at the cuckoo clock, she noted that it was almost six o’clock.

“They’re probably closed by now,” she told Sweety Boy as she locked the front door. Then again, maybe not.

Setting her stuff down, she walked over to her desk and retrieved the phone book from the bottom drawer. Finding the number, she dialed, and to her surprise, her call was answered on the second ring.

“Ah, yes, hello,” she told the woman who answered the call. After giving the woman her name and address, she said, “A gorgeous bouquet of flowers were delivered to me yesterday, but the card wasn’t signed. I’m hoping that you can tell me who ordered them. I’d like to send them a thank-you note,” she added.

“Hold on a moment, Ms. LaRue, and I’ll check.”

A few minutes later, the woman told her, “Whoever ordered the flowers paid cash, ma’am.”

Cash meant the person must have ordered the flowers in person. “Do you happen to remember the person who ordered them?”

“Sorry. Yesterday was my day off. June—the owner—would know, but she’s already gone for the day. You can call back tomorrow. She comes in around eight-thirty most mornings.”

After thanking the woman, Charlotte hung up the phone, then turned to stare at the blank screen of the television. Curious, yet dreading what she might see and hear, Charlotte reached for the remote control, and switched on the TV.

The weather forecaster had just finished up the preliminary weather report when the camera switched to the news desk.

“This just in,” the announcer said. “Through a confidential source, we’ve learned that it was a maid named Charlotte LaRue who discovered the dead body of Nick Franklin earlier this morning in that Garden District murder.”

T
he second Charlotte heard her name come out of the announcer’s mouth, her own mouth went dry and she began to shake. As the announcer continued giving details about the murder and Nick Franklin’s connection to Angel Martinique, the rest of what he said faded beneath her fury.

“Don’t leave town and don’t talk to the news media.
” The detective’s warning roared in her head. It was bad enough that her name was being broadcast all over creation. Reporters would be knocking down her door. But even worse, she was almost certain that Gavin Brown, along with the rest of the NOPD, was going to think that
she
was the one who leaked the information to the press.

Stop it! You’re just being paranoid.

No sooner had the thought entered her mind than the phone rang. Sure enough, the caller ID read “Gavin Brown.”

“So, I’m being paranoid, am I?” She jerked up the receiver. “I didn’t do it,” she told him.

“Yeah, we know,” Gavin Brown said.

How could he know?

As if he’d heard her silent question, he explained. “I have to admit that at first I didn’t trust you to only give Ms. Duhè the bare-boned facts, so, to make certain, I called her about an hour ago. But when I spoke to her, she assured me that you hadn’t said a word about being the one who had discovered the body.” He chuckled. “In fact, she was pretty indignant about the whole thing. Anyway, I was mostly calling to warn you in case you didn’t see the broadcast, and I’m hoping that you might have some idea of who might have leaked the info.”

Still angry, Charlotte drummed her fingers against the desktop. “I wish I did know who the blabbermouth was. But considering how angry I am at the moment, it’s probably best that I don’t know, or else you might have another murder on your hands. I don’t want or appreciate my name being broadcast over the airwaves, especially in connection with a murder.”

What about Bruce King, that awful paparazzi fellow?

Charlotte frowned. Why on earth would his name come to mind? Unless the man was Houdini, there was no way he’d be able to sneak inside the house or know any more than the rest of the media. Still, he had tried unsuccessfully to bribe her for information, so it stood to reason that he could have found someone willing to feed him dirt. And if he did, he could have leaked her name on purpose, out of spite—payback for not taking his bribe.

“I don’t blame you for being ticked off,” the detective said. “But one thing—you might want to consider staying somewhere else for a few days. Reporters will be camping out on your doorstep now.”

“Great! Just wonderful,” she added sarcastically. “Thanks for the warning, but barring a hurricane, I have no intention of letting anyone run me out of my home.”

Unbidden, again the name Bruce King came to mind. Should she or shouldn’t she mention the tabloid reporter? It only took a moment for her to decide. “Listen, now that I’m thinking about it, you might want to check out a reporter who was hanging around on Monday. I was leaving when he approached me and tried to bribe me to give him information about Angel. Of course I refused, but someone else might have decided to take him up on his offer. He could have someone on the inside feeding him information.”

“So, are you going to give me his name or keep me guessing?”

“Oh—yes, of course. His name is Bruce King.”

“Okay, thanks.”

With Bruce King still on her mind, Charlotte slowly hung up the receiver. By all accounts, when it came to Angel, the sleazy man was relentless. Could he also be desperate, desperate enough for something sensational about Angel that he would create his own so-called news?

What? By committing murder? Don’t even go there.

Immediately dismissing the idea as yet another case of having an overactive imagination, Charlotte headed for the kitchen to see what she could find for supper.

The first thing Charlotte did on Thursday morning was peek out her front window in search of anyone who didn’t belong there. “So far, so good,” she told Sweety Boy, and she stepped outside onto the porch to retrieve the morning newspaper from the front steps. Back inside, she headed for the kitchen, where she settled down at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and the newspaper.

Sure enough, an article about Nick Franklin’s murder made the front page. She briefly skimmed it. When she’d finished, she breathed a sigh of relief that her name hadn’t been mentioned.

After breakfast she headed to the bedroom to get dressed for the day. As she passed through the living room, the sight of the bouquet of flowers gave her pause and reminded her about phoning the flower shop.

“It should be open by now,” she murmured. Her call was answered on the third ring. “Hi, is this June, the owner?”

“Yes, this is June.”

“June, I’m looking for some information on a bouquet of flowers that was delivered to me Tuesday afternoon.”

“Name, please,” June asked.

“Charlotte LaRue and I live on Milan Street.”

“Just a sec while I check my records.” Several moments passed; then June said, “Ah, yes, here it is. Was there a problem with the flowers, Ms. LaRue?”

“No, no problem, except that the card wasn’t signed. I’m hoping that you can tell me who ordered them. They’re so beautiful and I want to send a thank-you note.”

“Hmm, let me see…No, sorry, no name was given. I see from my records that the flowers were a cash purchase.”

Charlotte sighed. “Yes, well, do you happen to remember the person who bought the flowers?

There were several moments of silence before June finally said, “Sorry, I don’t. Tuesday was an exceptionally busy day for me and I was in the shop by myself.”

“Phooey,” Charlotte whispered, even more puzzled.

“Like I said, ma’am, I am sorry that I can’t help you.”

“That’s okay, but if you do remember something—anything—or if he comes back in and you recognize him, could you please give me a call?” Suddenly, another thought occurred. “Or, if anyone else comes in with a cash order for me, could you make sure you get their name?”

“Sure. Give me your phone number.”

“Thank you so much.” Once Charlotte gave June her phone number, she thanked her again and hung up the phone.

Shaking her head and even more puzzled than before, Charlotte continued on to the bedroom to dress. Maybe it was Louis who sent the flowers. He had been acting a little strange of late, and it would be like him to just assume that she would know he sent the bouquet. But what on earth would he be thanking her for?

She could always call him and find out. Or she could simply wait until he got home and then ask him. She’d wait, she decided.

On Friday morning, Charlotte was headed out the door when the phone rang. “Murphy’s Law,” she murmured as she marched over to the desk. “What can go wrong will go wrong,” she added, glaring at the CALLER UNKNOWN on the phone ID display screen. Usually CALLER UNKNOWN only popped up when someone was calling from a cell phone, didn’t it? No, that wasn’t exactly right, but at the moment she couldn’t remember.

Probably Mega Films. “I should have known this would happen,” she told Sweety Boy. “Should have known that the moment I promised Carol I would babysit the twins for a couple of hours, that would be the time they would call for me to come back to work.”

Still and all, maybe it was simply a wrong number, or someone looking for a maid, or…“Oh, for pity’s sake, just answer it,” she whispered. With a sigh, she picked up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”

“You’ll never guess what I just found out.”

Great! Bitsy!

“The police have arrested Angel Martinique for murdering that boyfriend of hers,” Bitsy continued without waiting for Charlotte to comment. “I believe the boyfriend’s name is Nick Franks or Franklin, something like that. But then you probably already know that, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer she continued. “They say that Angel stabbed him with a letter opener, of all things. Do you think she did it on purpose or was it an accident?”

When Charlotte didn’t answer, Bitsy said, “Oh, never mind. Anyway, not only did they find her fingerprints all over the letter opener, but there’s been some talk that Angel and this Nick person have a history that goes way back to when they were teenagers.”

For several moments, Charlotte was too stunned to speak. Even though she’d witnessed two separate altercations between Nick Franklin and Angel, and one had even been a bit violent, she just couldn’t picture Angel stabbing Nick.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Bitsy demanded.

Charlotte took a shaky breath. “First of all, is this just gossip or facts? And second, if what you’ve just told me is true, where did you get your information? There was nothing on the morning news about any of this.”

“No, it’s not ‘just gossip.’ I don’t gossip.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.
Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of England
.

“I’ll have you know,” Bitsy retorted, “I have my sources. I may be old, but in case you’ve forgotten, I still have connections to City Hall.”

Oh, boy, now she’d gone and insulted the old lady…again. She knew she should be ashamed for being so impatient and judgmental, but Bitsy had a way of getting on her last nerve.

“And by the way,” Bitsy continued, obviously still miffed, “while I’m thinking about it, you should have told me that you were the one who discovered the body.”

Dear Lord, give me strength
. “Bitsy, I’ve already explained to you why I couldn’t do that.” Charlotte forced herself to soften her tone. “I just want to know who told you about the arrest.”

“Well, if you must know, my neighbor called me. Don’t you remember? She’s the one whose son works over at the jail. She’s also keeping me informed about the goings-on around my house while I’m gone.”

Charlotte was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea of Bitsy having a snitch when the old lady said, “So, what do you think? Did Angel do it? I figure since you’ve been around her for a couple of days, surely you have some kind of opinion about it.”

Charlotte had no intention of discussing her own speculations about Angel’s guilt or innocence with Bitsy or prolonging the conversation, for that matter. Purposely ignoring the question, she said, “Bitsy, I really appreciate the information and I hate to cut this short, but I was on my way out the door when you called. I promised Carol that I would babysit Samantha and Samuel this morning.”

For several moments, the only sound Charlotte heard was heavy breathing, then, “Humph! When you finish
babysitting
, call me.” The next sound Charlotte heard was a loud click.

Charlotte pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. “I can’t believe it. She hung up on me.” She shook her head. “Guess there’s a first for everything,” she told Sweety Boy as she picked up her purse and headed for the door. Just as she reached for the doorknob, she remembered the detective’s warning about reporters camping out on her doorstep. “Might be a good idea to check first,” she told the little bird as she stepped over to the window.

Sure enough, there was a strange van parked across the street from her house. “Great!” she muttered. “Now what?” Finally, after staring at the vehicle a few moments more, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Might as well get it over with.

“Now, you be a good little birdie, and I’ll be back later,” she said to Sweety Boy, then firmly closed the door behind her and locked it.

She was almost to her van when a man emerged from the driver’s side of the parked vehicle. “Hey, lady,” he called out, walking quickly toward her. “Wait up a minute.”

Charlotte hopped inside her van, slammed the door shut, and hit the automatic door-lock. Then, after cranking up the van, she turned to see where the man had gone. The sight of his face on the other side of the window gave her a start, and fear mixed with anger spurted through her.

“Sorry about that,” he said loudly as he backed away. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but are you Ms. Charlotte LaRue?”

“Who wants to know?” she asked pointedly.

“I’m a freelance reporter, ma’am, and I need to talk to Ms. LaRue.”

Torn between telling the man to get off her property and calling the police, Charlotte simply glared at the man.

Remember, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar
.

Or, in this case, maybe she could get rid of the pesky reporter easier by being nice rather than being nasty. It was worth a try and she knew just exactly how she was going to do it.

Pasting on the sweetest little-old-lady smile that she could conjure, she said, “Sorry, young man. I know all of my neighbors and none of their names are LaRue.” It wasn’t a lie…not exactly. She did know all of her neighbors and none of them but her had the last name LaRue. “You must have the wrong street.”

The reporter didn’t argue, but he did give her a funny look as he backed away. Then, with a shrug, he finally turned and headed for his van. “That should work for a little while,” she said aloud to no one as she shifted into
Reverse
and backed out of her driveway.

Putting thoughts of the reporter aside for the moment, she mulled over Bitsy’s phone call while she drove to her daughter-in-law’s house. If it were true, if the police had arrested Angel for murder, how would that affect the movie? Would they shut down production permanently? She figured that without one of the main stars, they wouldn’t have a choice.

By the time that Charlotte got home that afternoon, she was well ready for a little peace and quiet…and she was bone-tired. What she needed was a cup of coffee.

She headed for the kitchen, fixed the coffeepot, and turned it on. While the coffeepot gurgled and sputtered, reminding her that it was past time to give the machine a thorough cleaning, she stared out the window over the sink. She dearly loved the twins and loved spending time with them, but being around them when their mother was there to referee as opposed to having the full responsibility of being the referee was an entirely different thing.