Wiped Out (16 page)

C
harlotte's knees went weak. Stephen's mother…the woman who had abandoned her son and her husband because she couldn't cope with the troubled boy or her husband's long hours as a police detective. Louis's ex-wife…the woman who had left him, left him to raise their troubled teenage son all by himself.

“I looked her up while I was in San Francisco,” Louis said. “I thought she should know about Stephen, how well he's doing. And I thought she should know that she's a grandmother. I—I thought it might make a difference. Well, actually, it was Stephen's idea.”

Charlotte's insides churned with confusion.
Make a difference?
Make a difference how? She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“I know you don't, but if you'll just let me come inside, I'll try to explain.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. “Like I said before, you don't owe me an explanation, Louis.”

“I may not ‘owe' you one, but it's important to me that you understand. Please,” he pleaded.

It was the “please” that finally convinced her. Louis wasn't the type of man to beg. Charlotte released her hold on the door frame. “Wait here a minute.” She walked over to Sweety Boy's cage. “Sorry, Sweety,” she murmured, as she slipped the cover over it. “Now you be a good little bird,” she chided, as she turned and walked back to the front door. “You can come in now,” she told Louis.

Once inside, he asked, “Would a cup of coffee be too much trouble?”

Charlotte closed the door and locked it. “I suppose I could use a cup myself.”

Louis followed her back to the kitchen, then seated himself at the table. While Charlotte prepared the coffee, she could feel the heat of his gaze following her every move. Only when she switched on the coffeepot and joined him at the table did Louis finally begin to talk.

“Her name is Joyce,” he said. “I've known for some time now that she was living in San Francisco. And so did Stephen. Like I said, when he found out that I was going there this last trip, he asked me to look her up, just to check on her. I don't guess I'll ever understand it, but even after all she did, all she put us through, he still cares about her.”

“That's because she's his mother,” Charlotte whispered.

“Yeah, well, some women don't deserve to be mothers, but that's a whole other discussion. Anyway, I found her address and showed up on her doorstep.” His expression turned grim. “Her address was a halfway house. She'd been living there for the past six months, ever since she got out of jail.”

“Jail,” Charlotte whispered. “Why on earth was she in jail?”

Louis shifted in his chair and stared out the window. “'Cause she's an alcoholic, Charlotte. The only way the judge would release her was if she agreed to live at the halfway house for six months. Before that, she'd been living a hand-to-mouth existence on the streets.”

Clearly embarrassed, he glanced over at the coffeepot. “Looks like the coffee's ready.” He pushed himself out of the chair, went over to the cabinet, then took down two mugs from the cabinet. After he poured the coffee, he brought the mugs back to the table.

Once Louis settled back in his chair, he added sugar to his coffee, took a sip, then wrapped both hands around the mug and stared out the window again. After a moment, he said, “She's also dying. Cirrhosis of the liver—too many years of a poor diet and too many years of drinking herself into oblivion.”

“But she looks healthy enough.” The moment Charlotte said it, she immediately realized she'd just admitted she'd been spying on Louis, and the look on his face told her as much.

A ghost of a smile pulled at Louis's lips. “Yeah, well, one thing about Joyce, she always was an artist of sorts when it came to makeup.” Then, Louis sobered. “Heaven help me, I couldn't leave her, Charlotte.” He shook his head. “I just couldn't leave her there to die among strangers.”

An aching sensation tightened Charlotte's throat, and before she even realized that she'd done it, she reached out and placed her hand on Louis's forearm. “Of course you couldn't,” she told him.

Louis covered her hand with his and stared into her eyes. His own eyes were full of torment. “Good or bad, she's the mother of my son and she's Amy's grandmother. For his sake and for Amy, I-I—”

“You did the right thing, Louis.”

“I guess,” he whispered, “but—”

“No buts,” she told him. “Just the other day I was reminded of what my pastor once said. He said, ‘Do right and you'll feel right.'” She paused, then asked, “How long? How long does she have?”

“Not long. Maybe six months—probably less.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Louis shook his head. “No, but thanks for offering, especially under the circumstances.”

Long after Louis left, Charlotte sat on her sofa, nursing a second cup of coffee and staring into space. She couldn't stop thinking about his situation, and she couldn't help comparing Louis to the Gordon Adamses of the world. For all of Gordon Adams's money and all of his suave good looks and social background, in her opinion, he wasn't fit to lick the boots of a man like Louis. That Louis was willing to do what he was doing spoke volumes about the type of man he was.

But, then, hadn't she known all along that beneath that know-it-all, chauvinistic shell beat the heart of a good man, a dependable, responsible man of principle? As far as she was concerned, a man like Gordon Adams had nothing more than a thumping gizzard for a heart.

Later that night, before she climbed into bed, Charlotte added Joyce Thibodeaux to the list of people whom she prayed for each day.

 

On Saturday morning, for a change, Bitsy wasn't waiting for Charlotte when she drove up to her house. A man whom she assumed had to be Bradley Duhe was waiting for her instead. Well, not exactly waiting, she thought, as she parked the van. It looked more like he was pacing.

Charlotte climbed out of the van and gathered her supply carrier and vacuum cleaner. Before she got very far, though, Bradley called out, “Hold up and I'll help you carry that stuff inside.” Before she had a chance to respond, he bounded down the steps and jogged over to her. “Here—” He took the vacuum cleaner out of her grasp. “I'll take that in.”

Up close Bradley Duhe was every bit as good-looking as he was in the many pictures Charlotte had seen scattered throughout Bitsy's home. He was more than likely in his late fifties or early sixties and stood a good head taller than her own five-feet-three. He was a big man without appearing to be fat and had a head full of salt-and-pepper hair that was a bit on the long side, just brushing the collar of his shirt.

“Momma's inside cooking breakfast,” he explained, as they climbed the steps to the porch. When they reached the porch, he set the vacuum cleaner down and turned to face her. “I was waiting out here hoping for a chance to talk to you a minute without her around.”

Sudden dread filled Charlotte. Why on earth would he want to talk to her? And about what?”

“I'm afraid she's got some harebrained idea that I've come to force her to sell the house, that I want to stick her in a nursing home.”

Charlotte nodded. As far as she could see, there was no use in beating around the bush. “She has mentioned that a few times,” Charlotte told him.

Bradley rolled his eyes. “Where on earth does she come up with this stuff? All I've been trying to do is get her to talk about it so I'll know what she wants, if and when the time comes—just talk about it and nothing else.” He shook his head in exasperation. “I love my mother, but I swear, she can worry the horns off a billy goat.”

Charlotte snickered. Poor Bradley, he didn't know the half of it. And poor Bitsy, all this time worrying about what had turned out to be a misunderstanding.

“She really thinks highly of you,” Bradley said. “And she respects you and your opinions. I was hoping that you might give me some insight as to how to handle her.”

Feeling uncomfortable with the compliment, Charlotte swallowed hard and sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness for all the times that she'd passed judgment on Bitsy and for the unkind thoughts she'd had about her.

“She's just afraid of losing her independence,” she finally said. “It's a natural fear the older a person gets. We all
know
we're getting older and we
know
we can't do all the things we used to do, but knowing it up here—” She tapped the side of her head with her forefinger. “And coming to grips with it here—” She placed her hand over her heart. “Are two different things.”

Bradley crossed his arms and stared down at the porch floor. “Yeah, I know you're right about all of that, and I'm dreading the day when she can't take care of herself.” He raised his head and looked at Charlotte. “But how in the devil do I convince her that I'm not out to do her in?”

Since Charlotte had thought long and hard about the day she might have to give up her own independence, she had a ready answer. “Just tell her that, straight out, then explain that you only want what's best for her. And keep telling her. Ask her what
she
wants—in other words, let
her
plan ahead. Let her plan how she wants things handled once she can no longer take care of herself.” She shrugged. “Otherwise, the only thing you can do is keep reassuring her that she's handling things just fine.”

“Except for the ‘reassuring' part, that's what I thought I'd been doing.”

Charlotte smiled sympathetically. “That ‘reassuring' part is the most important part of all. We all like to feel that we have the approval and respect of the people we love.”

After a moment of thought, Bradley slowly nodded. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. Another moment passed, then he sighed. “Thanks, Charlotte. And for the record, my mother was right.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Right?”

He nodded. “She told me you were a wise lady.”

Again, shame and embarrassment warred within, causing Charlotte's cheeks to grow warm. From now on she'd have to make more of a concentrated effort to be less judgmental and a whole lot less impatient, she vowed.

Bradley cleared his throat. “Just one more thing before we go inside. I know it's short notice, and I apologize for that, but would you be free for dinner tonight?”

A nasty little imp inside urged Charlotte to accept Bradley's dinner invitation just to spite Louis, to show him that he wasn't the only man interested in her.

Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.

When the verse from Proverbs popped into her mind, she immediately squashed the little imp. She'd learned a long time ago that nothing good ever came from spiteful behavior. Besides, her on-again, off-again “relationship” with Louis wasn't entirely his fault, and Louis had enough on his mind right now without her rubbing salt into his wounds and acting like a jealous ninny. Of course, that was assuming that he really cared about her in a relationship way.

Charlotte smiled kindly at Bradley. “I don't think—”

“You'd be doing me a huge favor,” Bradley interrupted. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand and sighed. “You see, I suspect my mother is trying to play matchmaker. I told her that I'd take her out to a nice restaurant to eat tonight, and now she wants to invite another woman to join us—a daughter of one of her friends.” He shrugged. “I just thought if another woman was along…” His voice trailed away.

Charlotte felt her face grow hot for even thinking that Bradley was interested in her. She laughed to cover up her embarrassment. “Sorry, but I'm afraid you're on your own. I—”

“Aw, come on, Charlotte. Be a sport. I-I'll pay you.”

Embarrassment quickly yielded to indignation. The very idea that he thought he could
pay
her to go to dinner. Besides, regardless of Bitsy's compliments, the thought of spending an entire evening having to listen to her endless chatter was enough to make Charlotte want to pull her hair out by the roots.

Charlotte slowly counted to ten before she answered. “Look,” she told him, “if you don't want this other woman to tag along, why not just say so? Why not convince your mother that you wanted this dinner to be a special thing just between the two of you, a mother-son thing?”

Bradley hung his head. “You're right, of course—again. And please accept my apology. I didn't mean to insult you.”

Suddenly, the front door swung open and Bitsy appeared. The old lady's face was flushed and her eyes snapped with excitement. “Oh, Charlotte, I'm so glad you're here. You'll never guess what I just heard. I just got a call from Margo Jones and she said that the police have arrested Mimi Adams's murderer.”

S
hock rippled through Charlotte. “Say that again.”

Bitsy rolled her eyes. “I said that Margo called to tell me that the police have arrested Mimi Adams's murderer.”

“Did she say
whom
they arrested?”

“Well, no—no she didn't.” Bitsy suddenly grinned. “But I told Margo that if anyone could find out, it was you, what with your niece being a detective and all.”

For the moment, Charlotte ignored Bitsy's inference to Judith. “How does your friend
know
that someone was arrested?”

“She heard it from Sandra Wellington, and Sandra's friend Jane works as a police dispatcher.”

“Who's Mimi Adams?” Bradley asked his mother. When she didn't answer, he turned to Charlotte. “Your niece is a police detective?”

Both Charlotte and Bitsy ignored him. “So will you do it?” Bitsy asked, her eyes glittering with anticipation. “Will you call Judith?”

Now what? Charlotte wondered. Of course she would call Judith, just as soon as she got a moment to herself. But she couldn't tell Bitsy that. There was no way she was going to get sucked into Bitsy's rumor mill. Charlotte shook her head. “I can't do that.”

“Well, why in blue blazes can't you?” Bitsy demanded.

Charlotte heaved a sigh. “For one thing, Judith probably wouldn't tell me.” It was a half lie at best, but it was all Charlotte could come up with at the moment. “The police are funny about that kind of thing,” she added, which was the truth. Then, Charlotte thought of another reason, and though she hesitated before saying it, she decided that it was time someone said it. “And another thing,” she added, “we don't really know if it's true or not.”

Bitsy stiffened and her eyes flashed indignantly. “Well of course it's true. That's not the kind of thing that Sandra would lie about. And why would she lie to begin with? My goodness, Charlotte, don't be so paranoid.”

Charlotte shrugged and slowly shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I just can't,” she lied.

Bradley made a production of clearing his throat. “A-hem, excuse me, but would one of you please tell me what's going on here?”

Clearly miffed at Charlotte, Bitsy glared at her son. “Oh, put a sock in it, Bradley.” With that, she whirled around and stomped back inside the house.

His mouth hanging open, Bradley turned to Charlotte. “What's got into her? What did I do now?”

Charlotte felt sorry for Bradley and took pity on him. “It's not what you did. It's what I did, or, to be exact, it's what I won't do.” She laughed. “Your mother does like to have her own way.”

Bradley rolled his eyes. “Don't I know it. So, will
you
tell me what this is all about?”

Charlotte nodded. “A woman whom both your mother and I know was murdered a few days ago,” she explained. “And—”

“Bradley!” Bitsy yelled from inside the house. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Frustrated, Bradley made a growling noise, and Charlotte smiled sympathetically. “Go ahead. I'll be inside in a minute. I need to get something out of the van.”

With a slightly dazed look and a shake of his head, Bradley picked up the vacuum cleaner and went inside. The moment he closed the front door, Charlotte whipped out her cell phone and dialed Judith. A few moments later, she let out her own frustrated growl when she got Judith's voice mail.

Deciding against leaving a message, Charlotte switched off the phone. Either Judith had her phone turned off or she wasn't answering on purpose, which probably meant that she was busy.

Charlotte dropped the phone back into her apron pocket and, bracing herself for what she figured was going to be a long day, picked up the supply carrier and went inside the house.

 

By the time Charlotte left Bitsy's that afternoon, she still didn't know if the rumor Bitsy had heard was true or not. Bitsy had been on the phone, on and off, most of the day, but none of her connections had produced the name of the person who had supposedly been arrested for Mimi Adams's murder.

All afternoon while Charlotte was cleaning, she'd been making a mental list of the suspects and had narrowed the list down to two, possibly three people—Gordon, Rita, and maybe June—whom the police could have arrested, but, like Bitsy, the not knowing was driving her crazy.

On the drive home, she was sorely tempted to swing by the police station, just on the off chance that she might catch Judith there. But after thinking about it, she decided that doing so probably wasn't such a good idea, and besides, she didn't want to cause any trouble for Judith.

When Charlotte pulled into her driveway, she noticed that Louis's Taurus was gone. But as she walked up the steps to the porch, she saw a brief flicker of movement at the window on Louis's side of the double. Louis wasn't home, but evidently Joyce was there.

Charlotte had just inserted her key into the lock when Louis's front door opened and Joyce stepped out onto the porch.

The mental image of Joyce that Charlotte had carried with her from the previous day paled in comparison to the thin woman now standing on the porch. It was like seeing a completely different woman, an extremely ill woman.

Up close there was a telltale yellowish tinge to Joyce's skin and to the whites of her eyes. Again, Joyce was wearing a tank top, but with shorts instead of jeans, and along her shoulders spider-like blood vessels were visible.

“You must be Charlotte,” Joyce said, managing a small, nervous smile.

Charlotte nodded and managed a smile of her own. “And you must be Joyce. Would you like to come inside?”

Joyce shook her head. “Oh, no, I'd better not, but thanks. I've been watching for you to come home and hoping for a chance to talk to you without Louis around.” She paused a moment, as if embarrassed. “I'm not sure how he would feel about me talking to you, so please don't say anything.”

Charlotte frowned. “Why on earth would Louis care if you talked to me?”

Joyce gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I'm not sure. That's just the impression I got, and I don't want to do anything to aggravate him. You won't say anything, will you?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I won't.”

“Good. The reason I wanted to talk to you is to thank you. Louis told me how you encouraged him to contact Stephen,” she explained, “and how that it was because of you that they're on such good terms now after being estranged for so long.”

Charlotte wasn't sure what she'd expected, but she hadn't expected gratitude from Joyce.

“As you probably know,” Joyce continued, “I haven't been much of a mother to Stephen or much of a wife to Louis, but I've always loved my son and only wanted the best for him. And for Louis, too. At the time I left, believe me, that was the best for both of them. But now, thanks to you, he and Louis can be a family again.” Once more she paused. Then, as if gathering her courage, she said, “I also wanted you to know that I won't be causing you any trouble. Louis is gone a lot, and he said you wouldn't mind me staying for a while.”

“No, of course I don't mind,” Charlotte reassured her. “And it's really none of my business anyway.”

“Well, then, thanks again.” With a brief nod, Joyce turned and went back inside, and Charlotte was left standing on the porch by herself.

For several moments Charlotte continued standing there, staring at the closed door to Louis's half of the double.
Trouble?
What kind of trouble could Joyce cause? Then, with a shake of her head, she turned, unlocked her door, and went inside.

“Missed you, missed you,” Sweety Boy chirped the moment she entered. Then he began squawking and dancing back and forth along his perch, a ploy to get her attention.

“Hey, Boy,” she called out. “I missed you too. Just give me a minute and I'll let you out for a while.”

Charlotte pulled off her tennis shoes, and as she slipped into her moccasins, bits and pieces of her brief conversation with Joyce kept playing through her mind. But one particular phrase kept coming back to her over and over.

I haven't been much of a mother to Stephen or much of a wife to Louis.

“‘Much of a wife to Louis,'” she murmured, mulling over the words and wondering why they bothered her. Then, suddenly, she knew why. The way Joyce had said it implied that she was still married to Louis, that she was still his wife.

Charlotte's insides churned, as she made her way to the kitchen. Had Louis ever actually
said
he was divorced?

Charlotte racked her brain, as she fixed the coffeepot, and tried to recall just exactly what he had said about his and Joyce's relationship. If she remembered right, he'd said that Joyce had left him and Stephen when Stephen was about twelve, that she'd just packed a bag and walked out.

The next thing I knew I was being served divorce papers.

As Louis's words came back to her, she remembered something else he'd said just yesterday: “She's my ex-wife.”

Relief washed through Charlotte. But relief quickly gave way to doubt and confusion. Just because divorce papers had been served didn't necessarily mean that he'd signed them or that he and Joyce had actually gone through with the divorce. And just because he'd called her his “ex-wife” didn't necessarily make it true.

Still disturbed by it all, Charlotte glanced at the coffeepot and saw that the coffee was ready. She had just finished pouring herself a cup when the phone rang.

With a sigh, she hurried into the living room and snatched up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”

“Charlotte, have you heard anything else yet?”

Just the sound of Bitsy's voice made Charlotte want to groan out loud. She took a deep breath and prayed for patience. “No, Bitsy,” she said firmly. “Nothing yet.”

“Well, you will be sure to let me know when you do hear something, won't you?”

Charlotte didn't want to outright lie to the old lady. She already had told enough lies to confess to for one day, so instead of answering Bitsy, she tried changing the subject. “How are things with you and Bradley? Are y'all working out your misunderstandings?”

“Humph! That son of mine is just as stubborn as his father ever thought about being. Why, would you believe he didn't like my idea about remodeling the kitchen, didn't like it one bit—said it was a waste of money?” Bitsy snickered. “But I'm still working on him.”

As usual, Bitsy had her own agenda and had completely misunderstood the question. “Well, maybe you ought to reconsider,” Charlotte told her. “Remember, all those strangers in and out and all of that noise and mess could really be nerve-wracking.”

“Yes, well…I suppose you do have a point.”

“Just promise me you'll think about it,” Charlotte said. “And I'll see you on Tuesday,” she added. Without waiting for a response, Charlotte then said, “Bye now,” and quickly hung up the receiver.

Glaring at the phone, she made a silent vow that first thing Monday morning she was phoning BellSouth and having caller I.D. added. At least that way she would know when Bitsy was calling, and she could let the answering machine take Bitsy's calls.

Charlotte continued staring at the phone. As long as she was there, she might as well try to call Judith again. She tapped out Judith's cell phone number, and after the third ring, her call was answered.

“Judith Monroe here.”

“Oh, Judith, finally. Can you talk a minute?”

“Oh, hey, Aunt Charley. Yeah, sure, but I only have a minute. What's up?”

Charlotte twisted the phone cord around her finger. “Well, I hate to bother you with this, but rumor has it that the police have made an arrest in the Mimi Adams murder. Ah, I was just wondering, is it true? Have you arrested Mimi's murderer?”