Wiped Out (13 page)

When Charlotte parked the van in front of the Adams's house, for a moment she simply stared at the beautiful old place. Such a shame, she thought. Mimi had put her heart and soul into turning the old house into a home and a showplace, and now…

Charlotte sighed. And now Mimi was gone, her life cut short at the hands of a murderer. Yet, as cold and heartless as it seemed, life went on, and sitting there thinking about it all wasn't getting her work done. Besides, there was nothing anyone could do about Mimi's death except find the killer and see that he or she was punished.

Another day, another dollar, she thought, as she climbed out of the van. All the work she'd been doing for the Adams family since Mimi's death had been good for her bank account, but she'd gladly give it all back in a heartbeat if the reason for it had never happened.

Charlotte trudged around to the back of the van and unloaded her supplies. She had tried to call Judith several times before going to bed, but she never was able to reach her. Finally, she'd given up and gone to bed. But she hadn't slept well at all for thinking about June and the brownies, and she'd dreaded the thought of coming face-to-face with June.

There was simply no way she could prove June had laced the brownies with the poisonous jimsonweed, not unless June confessed, and Charlotte didn't think that was a likely possibility. But there was also the little matter of motive. What possible motive could June have for murdering her best friend?

…But you don't have a little honey on the side either.

For the umpteenth time, Charlotte wondered if Gordon's “honey” could be June, and for the umpteenth time she told herself that just because she didn't like June didn't mean that the woman was a murderer and an adulteress.

Charlotte had the house key in her hand and was reaching to unlock the front door when it suddenly swung open. She fully expected to see June standing in the doorway and was surprised when she saw Emma instead.

“Hey, Charlotte.”

“Good morning.”

Emma craned her head around either side of Charlotte. “You didn't happen to see June, did you?”

No, and I hope I don't
was what Charlotte wanted to say, but she simply shook her head.

Emma frowned. “She said she'd be here before we left to go back to school.”

“Maybe she's just running a bit late.” Charlotte bent down and picked up her vacuum cleaner and supply carrier.

“Need some help with that stuff?” Emma asked.

Charlotte shook her head again. “No, hon, I'm used to lugging it around, but thanks anyway.” She walked past Emma and headed for the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Emma close the door.

In the kitchen, Justin, who was reading the newspaper at the table, glanced up when Charlotte entered.

Charlotte smiled. “Good morning.” The boy smiled back. Charlotte set her stuff down by the cabinet. “Emma says you're leaving this morning, going back to school.”

Justin nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

Emma entered the room. “I didn't see June,” she told her brother. “Think I should call her?”

Justin shrugged. “She'll be here, Em. You know she's always late.”

Emma made a face and plopped down in one of the chairs. “Yeah, I know, but I really wanted to talk to her before Dad got here.” To Charlotte's surprise, Emma said, “I need to apologize to her for being such a brat about everything.”

When the back door opened, then closed, all three turned toward the back hallway. Within seconds, June, carrying a Krispy Kreme donut box in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other hand, walked into the kitchen.

“Sorry I'm late,” June told them, placing the box and the bag on the countertop. “I wanted y'all to have some donuts and orange juice before you left.” She turned and took glasses and plates out of the cabinet.

“June?” Emma approached the older woman, and June turned to face her. “I-I want to apologize,” Emma said, her eyes filling with tears. “I've just been awful to you and I want you to know that I'm sorry and that I really do appreciate everything you've done for us this week.”

June's face went slack with surprise, and a lone tear slid down her cheek. After a moment, she reached out and pulled the girl into her arms. “Aw, honey, it's okay. I know this has been rough on you, and I understand. I loved your mother too, you know, and I just did what I did because I love you as well.”

Charlotte's throat tightened and her own eyes misted over. Feeling like an intruder and feeling horrible because of all the nasty things she'd been thinking about June, she slipped out of the room.

Either she'd let her wicked imagination get the best of her, Charlotte decided, and June was truly sincere, or June was a deceitful fraud, a consummate actress who was evil, through and through.

But which one was she?

W
ithin an hour after June had arrived with the donuts and orange juice, Gordon showed up to drive Emma and Justin to the airport. June walked outside with them to see them off, and once they drove away, she came back inside the house.

“I'm going to miss those two,” she told Charlotte. “I just hope they'll be okay.” She sighed and bowed her head, staring at the floor. “It's nice having the kids around,” she murmured. “I wanted more children, but Fred didn't. And now, with Johnny away at school…” Her voice trailed away. Then, after a moment, she shrugged. “Who knows, I'm not too old yet and maybe it's not too late.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering that she'd been talking to the maid, June straightened her shoulders and said, “If anyone calls or if you need me, I'll be in the library for most of the day. Gordon and the kids went through a lot of the cards from the florists yesterday after everyone left, but there are still a few thank-you notes that need writing.” June shook her head. “And I've got to figure out what to do with all of those blasted flowers and plants that people sent. There were so many that the walls of the church were lined with them. Way too many to leave at the cemetery.” She paused thoughtfully. “I suppose I could see about donating some of them to a hospital or maybe a nursing home.”

June's topsy-turvy mood really made Charlotte uncomfortable and wary, and the last thing she wanted was to have to stand there and listen to the woman carry on as if everything were normal.

“Donating them to a hospital or nursing home is probably a good idea,” Charlotte finally forced herself to say. “Especially considering how much Mimi loved plants and flowers.”

June nodded absently. “Yes, well, I guess I'd better get busy and let you do the same.”

So relieved that she could have cried, Charlotte nodded back, and it was lunchtime before she saw June again. Charlotte was seated at the kitchen table eating the chicken salad and crackers that she'd brought from home when June walked into the room.

“Hmm, that looks delicious,” June said, eyeing Charlotte's salad. She stepped over to the refrigerator and, after rummaging through it, pulled out what looked like a dish of jambalaya.

“Guess I'll have the jambalaya,” June said, placing the dish in the microwave. “I've noticed that you eat a lot of salads,” she said. “You don't look like you need to lose weight. Is that why you always bring a salad?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Not really. I'm a borderline diabetic, so I try to watch what I eat.”

The microwave beeper sounded, indicating that the jambalaya was ready. To Charlotte's surprise and dismay, June seated herself at the table across from her.

For the first few moments, they both ate in silence, but Charlotte's curiosity finally got the best of her. Why not pump June? Why not just see what she had to say?

Charlotte cleared her throat. “If you'd rather not talk about it, I'll understand,” she said, “but I was wondering if the police have come up with any suspects yet?”

Charlotte hadn't felt comfortable asking Judith on Sunday during lunch, but she'd tried to call her later that evening and never reached her. Since Judith's beeper went off just before she left Madeline's, Charlotte figured that her niece was still tied up with a case.

But if June happened to be guilty, Charlotte was sure she would have made it her business to find out all she could about what the police were doing.

June suddenly laughed. “If everyone they've questioned is a suspect, then the suspect list includes all the HHS members, as well as Sally next door, poor Gordon, you, and me.” She paused a moment, then shook her head. “I still can't get over how much you and that woman detective favor each other.”

Charlotte simply shrugged, and June took a bite of the jambalaya. Once she'd chewed and swallowed, she said, “My personal favorite suspect of the whole bunch is Rita Landers. She made Mimi's life miserable the last year or so with her gossiping. Why, did you know that she accused Mimi of having an affair with Don? He's Rita's husband,” she added.

It was the same thing Charlotte had heard being discussed at one of the HHS meetings, but she decided against saying so.

“Humph!” June grunted. “As if anyone would want to have an affair with Don Landers.” She shuddered. “The man is as poor as a church mouse and a total sleaze. Besides which, Mimi would never have an affair. She had way too much invested in Gordon.”

Later, as Charlotte was polishing the handrail of the staircase, she thought about what June had said. Because of the scene she'd witnessed between June and Emma that morning, and in spite of her revelation about June's brownies, she had to admit that her next favorite suspect would have to be Rita as well. After all, jealousy was a powerful motive, and she'd yet to come up with a real motive for June.

As for Rita, if she was jealous of Mimi because of her own affair with Gordon—and Charlotte still couldn't quite believe that she was—then what better way to hide the affair than for Rita to accuse Mimi of having one with her husband, Don?

It was a sick scenario and a bit far-fetched, but Charlotte even fancied that she had figured out how Rita could have dispensed the poison without poisoning the rest of the HHS members.

The wine was the clue. Charlotte was sure of it. Rita had used the wine as the vehicle to get close enough to administer the poison. Though Charlotte hadn't been in the kitchen when the women had uncorked the bottle and she didn't know who had actually poured the wine, she'd be willing to bet that Rita had done the honors. If Rita had poured the wine, she could have easily slipped the poison into just Mimi's glass without anyone being the wiser.

Rita certainly seemed to have motive and opportunity, but of course now there was no proof. Rita had made sure of that when she'd sneaked back in the kitchen and washed the wine glasses. And come to think of it, washing the wine glasses was pretty suspicious.

Charlotte paused, admiring the sheen of the old wooden banister. Then suddenly she frowned. So why had Rita come back and taken the leftover wine after the meeting was over? If she'd only laced Mimi's glass, then why bother taking the bottle?

“Must be something wrong with my theory,” she murmured, as she finished polishing the banister, then moved on to the tables in the main hall. Maybe she should try to call Judith again and see what she could find out. Then again, maybe not. Judith might be a blabbermouth when it came to family matters, but she could be pretty closemouthed about police matters when she wanted to be. Charlotte paused. Maybe it was a good thing after all that she hadn't been able to get in touch with Judith. For one thing, Judith would want to know why she was so curious, and then she'd have to endure another of her niece's lectures about getting involved, and one of her niece's lectures was the last thing she needed right now.

Charlotte sighed and capped the bottle of lemon oil. Thinking about it all was giving her a headache. Either that or the smell of the polish.

 

Bitsy Duhe, Charlotte's Tuesday client, lived on the same street as the vampire novelist Anne Rice used to. Bitsy's house was a very old raised-cottage-style Greek Revival and was surrounded by huge azalea bushes.

Charlotte had begun working for Bitsy after the death of Bitsy's husband, a former mayor of New Orleans. Before his death, Bitsy and he had led an active social life. Since his death, though, Bitsy had nothing but time on her hands. Her only relatives, a son and two granddaughters, lived some distance away, so the elderly lady spent most of her days either gossiping on the telephone or adding to her enormous collection of kitchen gadgets.

As usual, Bitsy was already outside standing on the front gallery when Charlotte drove up. And as usual, the spry, birdlike elderly lady was dressed in one of her many midcalf flowered dresses.

Bitsy waved as Charlotte parked her van behind an unfamiliar truck in front of the house. Wondering whom the truck belonged to, Charlotte smiled and waved back. As she unloaded her supply carrier from the back of the van, a tall, dark-haired man, who Charlotte guessed was in his mid-to late thirties, came out of the house.

When Charlotte reached the porch, Bitsy introduced the man. “Charlotte, this is Patrick McDonnell. Mr. McDonnell is giving me an estimate on renovating my kitchen.”

Charlotte nodded a brief greeting to Patrick McDonnell. To Bitsy she said, “I guess I didn't realize you were considering a renovation.”

“I wasn't until I came across an article in an old magazine about Julia Child's kitchen.”

Charlotte frowned. “I don't understand.”

Bitsy sighed impatiently. “You know. Julia Child, the cooking expert.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know who Julia Child is, but—”

“Well, then, pay attention, Charlotte. Back in November 2001, Julia donated her kitchen to the Smithsonian National Museum, and I thought, why not?”

“Why not what?” Charlotte asked, her frown deepening. Sometimes, following Bitsy's nonstop dialogue was like being lost in a maze.

“For goodness sake, what I meant was why not make over my kitchen like hers? Now, wouldn't that be a hoot?” Bitsy waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I asked Jenny—remember, she's my granddaughter who lives in New York—well, I asked her to drive down to DC and go to the Smithsonian. I wanted her to see if she could get pictures of Julia's kitchen, or a copy of a blueprint of it, so I could re-create it.”

Bitsy paused thoughtfully. “One of the biggest problems, though, will be finding one of those old Garland Commercial Ranges like Julia used, you know, the kind they built back in the early fifties. I believe the article said that the model number was one hundred eighty-two, but—”

To Charlotte's relief, Patrick McDonnell cleared his throat and interrupted Bitsy's endless chatter. “Mrs. Duhe, I'm afraid I have bad news.”

“Bad news? Oh, dear, what now?”

Charlotte didn't wait around to hear what Patrick had to say. With Bitsy preoccupied, Charlotte seized the opportunity to slip inside the house.

On the days that Charlotte worked for Bitsy, the only reprieve she got from the old lady's endless chatter was when Bitsy was on the phone or had a doctor's appointment. Otherwise, she followed Charlotte around jabbering on and on about the latest gossip she'd heard from her cronies.

Charlotte began cleaning in the kitchen, and as she loaded the dishwasher, she prayed that Patrick McDonnell would have lots to talk about, enough to keep Bitsy out of her hair for a little while, anyway.

After loading the dishwasher, Charlotte wiped down the stove, but Bitsy's new venture stayed on her mind. For months, Bitsy had been complaining that her son was trying to persuade her to sell the house and move into an assisted-living facility. Charlotte grimaced. Something like this newest harebrained idea of hers just might be the final straw for her son. It might make him even more determined to move her into a “home.”

 

An hour later Bitsy finally came inside. Charlotte was changing the sheets in the master bedroom. When the older lady tracked her down, Charlotte could see from the petulant expression on her face that something was wrong and that Bitsy was very unhappy.

“He says that my kitchen isn't quite big enough to be an authentic replica,” Bitsy said.

Someone should really say something to the old lady to discourage her, Charlotte thought, as she wrestled the fitted sheet onto the mattress. It was bad enough that Bitsy collected every kind of kitchen gadget imaginable, but this latest obsession was totally off the wall.

Though there was a lot that Charlotte wanted to say to the old lady, and she was sorely tempted, she held her tongue, as she spread the top sheet over the bed. Knowing Bitsy, she probably wouldn't listen to reason anyway.

Bitsy was staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose I could have someone come in and enlarge it, but that would mean a lot of construction work—tearing down walls and such.”

Charlotte couldn't stand it a moment longer. She threw a blanket on the bed, and once she smoothed it down, she turned to Bitsy and said, “Are you sure you want to go to all of that expense and trouble? I can't help but believe it would cost you an arm and a leg.”

Bitsy's head snapped around, and she glared at Charlotte. “It's not the cost that concerns me. I have plenty of money. It's the mess and all of those strangers—the workmen—coming in and out.”

“What about Bradley?” Charlotte persisted. “What's he going to think about such a project?”

Charlotte's question brought Bitsy up short, and her eyes clouded with uncertainty.

In a kinder voice, Charlotte said, “You've told me time and again that he's just been looking for an excuse to force you to sell the house, and I'm afraid this might aggravate the situation even more.”

Bitsy nodded slowly. “As much as I hate to admit it, you're probably right,” she conceded. “Maybe I should think about it a while longer.”

Charlotte nodded as she threw the chenille comforter on top of the bed and tugged it into place.

“By the way,” Bitsy said, “Did Sandra Wellington call you?”

Charlotte froze. “How did you know?”

“That must mean that she did.” When Charlotte nodded, Bitsy grinned. “Good,” she said. “She's really a lovely woman, but a terrible housekeeper, or so I hear.”

“B-but how did you know about—”

Bitsy waved her hand. “Oh, for Pete's sake, Margo Jones told me, and I saw Sandra at the Garden District Book Shop the other day.”

“Now I'm really confused. What does Margo Jones have to do with anything?”

“Margo's daughter is buying Marian Hebert's house.” She shrugged. “I put two and two together and—” She shrugged again. “I knew Sandra was looking for someone to clean for her.”