Death Tidies Up (13 page)

“Oh, hon—” Charlotte moved immediately to the sofa. She set her glass down on the coffee table and put her arm around the younger woman's shoulders. “Please don't think I'm blaming you, because I'm not. I know this is upsetting, but I just couldn't stand by and not say anything. I care too much about you.”

Cheré closed her eyes and shook her head. “Not upset—not with you.” She bowed her head. “Mostly upset with myself. I've known for some time that something was wrong, that Todd and his father weren't…” Her voice trailed away. “It's just that finally, I had someone of my own, someone—” She shook her head. “It's hard to explain.”

She opened her eyes and turned to Charlotte. “I know you mean well, Charlotte, and it's not that I don't believe you, but it's just been a long time since I had anyone who cared enough to—” She hesitated, then continued. “My mom died when I was twelve, and after she died, my dad—Well, he did the best he could, but with three other children besides me and his job, he's just never had a lot of time. I've been kind of on my own, and—” Suddenly, she leaned over and hugged Charlotte. “Thanks,” she whispered against Charlotte's shoulder. “Thanks for caring.”

Charlotte was beyond words as tears filled her own eyes and painful memories filled her head. Like Cheré, she knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. All within the space of a couple of years she'd lost the man she'd loved with all of her heart, then she'd lost her beloved parents. She knew all too well how it felt to be all alone without anyone to care about you. And she understood.

Charlotte swallowed hard and sniffed back the tears. “No thanks required,” she finally told Cheré when she could speak again. “Like I said before, I don't want to see you get hurt.”

 

“What a Difference a Day Makes.” Charlotte hummed the tune of the old song as she turned down First Street on Tuesday morning. It had been one of her mother's favorites, and for whatever reason, she'd awakened with the song playing in her head.

The lyrics of the song were right on, she thought. Just one day, along with a good night's sleep, could make a huge difference in a person's whole outlook.

Once Cheré had left, Charlotte had treated herself to a long, luxurious bath and a light supper of cheese, fruit, and crackers. Then she'd curled up in bed with the mystery novel she'd been wanting to read. She'd only gotten through the first two chapters when she realized that she either had to quit reading or she'd end up pulling an all-nighter, just to discover who the killer was. But the whole process had relaxed her just enough so that when she did turn out the lights, she fell asleep almost immediately. And she'd stayed asleep until her alarm sounded that morning.

Now if only she didn't have to face Bitsy Duhe, she thought, easing off the accelerator as she approached Bitsy's house. Like Bitsy, the raised-cottage-style Greek Revival was old; according to the old lady, the house had been built in the mid-eighteen-hundreds.

Charlotte sighed heavily. She hadn't returned the old lady's phone call, and knowing Bitsy as she did, she would have a million questions about the discovery of Drew Bergeron's body. Any and every tidbit of information would be grist for Bitsy's gossip mill.

“But I don't want to talk about Drew Bergeron,” Charlotte muttered as she pulled alongside the curb and parked.
And you sound like a petulant child,
an inner voice taunted.

Maybe so, she argued back, but for once, she didn't care. All she wanted was to forget that she'd ever seen Drew Bergeron, to wipe the memory of his half-naked body and his dead eyes from her mind forever.

Charlotte barely had time to park the van in front of Bitsy's house when the elderly lady appeared at the doorway, then stepped out onto the gallery. Bitsy was a spry, birdlike woman, and as usual, she was wearing one of her many loose, midcalf floral dresses.

The minute Charlotte emerged from the van, Bitsy waved at her. “Do hurry up, Charlotte,” she called out in her squeaky voice. “I've fixed a fresh batch of muffins, but we need to eat them while they're hot. And we can talk,” she added.

Oh, great. Just what I need—muffins full of calories and fat grams to go along with a conversation about a dead man.
The minute the sarcastic thought entered Charlotte's mind, guilt reared its ugly head.
Be nice, now. She's an old lady, and she really doesn't mean any harm.

“Be there in just a sec,” Charlotte spoke up as she unloaded her supply carrier from the back of the van.

A few moments later, as Charlotte climbed the steps leading to the front gallery, she couldn't help noticing that something about Bitsy was different. She looked younger and…
happier
was the only word she could think of.

Then suddenly it hit her. Of course! Bitsy had changed her hairstyle. For as long as Charlotte had worked for Bitsy, the old lady had worn her hair pulled straight back into a tight little bun that she secured at the nape of her neck. She'd once confided in Charlotte that pulling her hair back so tightly helped smooth out the wrinkles around her eyes and was like getting an instant face-lift.

“Why, Miss Bitsy, you've had your hair cut,” she drawled, then smiled. “I love it. I absolutely love it. That shorter look is just beautiful.”

Preening at the compliment, Bitsy reached up and patted her hair. “That's thanks to your girl, Valerie, down at the Lagniappe Beauty Salon,” she quipped.

“Oh, right—Valerie. Of course,” Charlotte murmured, her smile fading as she followed Bitsy inside. “Now that you mention it, I believe I do recall her telling me that you had switched over to—”

“Didn't you get my message, Charlotte?”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Message?”

“Now that's strange. I called you on Sunday and left a message.”

Charlotte neither denied nor confirmed that she'd gotten the message. “What was it you needed?” she asked innocently as she followed Bitsy into the house.
Liar, liar, pants on fire,
a voice whispered in her head, and shame washed through her. She'd always despised the act of lying. And she'd always figured that lying by omission and outright lying were the same thing.

“Why, I wanted to know all about Drew Bergeron. What else?”

Charlotte purposely ignored the statement. “When did you get your hair cut?” she asked, hoping to steer Bitsy onto something else, anything else but rehashing the events that had taken place on Saturday. “I just can't get over how lovely it looks.”

“Friday morning, and Jenny—you remember, that's the granddaughter who lives in New York, the one who visited this weekend—well, she really liked it a lot too. Said it made me look twenty years younger.” The old lady suddenly giggled. “She also said I was a real hip granny now.”

Charlotte smiled again as she set down her supply carrier in the kitchen. “Well, it does look nice on you,” she acknowledged. “Valerie is a very talented stylist.”

“And so smart,” Bitsy added, as she bustled over to the cabinet. “How many muffins can you eat?”

“Ah, Miss Bitsy, I—”

“Now I won't take no for an answer. They're blueberry. It's a new recipe I got out of a book I'm reading—”

Charlotte cleared her throat, interrupting. “The title of that book doesn't happen to be
Blueberry Muffin Murder
by Joanne Fluke, does it?”

“My goodness, Charlotte, how did you know?”

Charlotte smiled. “I'm reading it too.”

Bitsy beamed. “Well, then, you simply must try one or two. I baked them in my new toaster oven and I'm dying to get your opinion—on the oven, that is. According to the advertisement it's supposed to bake just as good as a regular oven but use half the electricity—not that I always believe everything I read.”

Typically Bitsy, and to Charlotte's relief, the old lady momentarily forgot about Drew Bergeron and took off on a tangent about how cautious elderly people needed to be about advertisements these days. To be polite, Charlotte tried to pretend interest, but her eyes strayed to the newest addition in a long line of kitchen gadgets that Bitsy had accumulated over the years.

Bitsy's entire kitchen was a maid's nightmare, not because it was especially dirty or messy, since the elderly lady adhered to the old philosophy of a place for everything and everything in its place, but because it contained every modern kitchen gadget imaginable, all of which collected dust and grease.

As best Charlotte could recall, at last count, Bitsy already owned two toaster ovens, both of which sat on a special shelf that she'd had built to display all of the appliances that wouldn't fit on the over-crowded countertops.

When Bitsy finally finished her tirade about misleading advertisements, she paused long enough to thrust a plate containing two muffins at Charlotte. “Here. Now try these and tell me what you think. Then, I want to hear all about Drew Bergeron.”

Charlotte's heart sank as she accepted the plate and seated herself at the kitchen table. In hopes of delaying what was beginning to look like the inevitable, she took a huge bite out of one of the pastries. Maybe if she kept her mouth full, then she wouldn't have to talk, at least not for a little while longer.

“I was going to bake them for Jenny, and get her opinion,” Bitsy continued, “but never got the chance.” She seated herself across from Charlotte. “Jenny was out so late Saturday night, and it was almost noon before she woke up. By then it was lunchtime.”

Charlotte swallowed. “Speaking of Jenny, did you enjoy her visit?” Maybe if she kept Bitsy talking about her granddaughter, she'd forget about Drew Bergeron.
Yeah, right. Fat chance.

“Oh, my, yes—yes, I did.” Bitsy gushed. “I just wish she could have stayed longer though. But she's promised to come back for Thanksgiving this year and spend more time. Now—” She waved at Charlotte's plate. “Eat up.”

Left with little choice and under Bitsy's watchful eye, Charlotte dutifully ate every crumb of the two muffins.

“Well? What do you think,” the old lady asked her when she'd finished.

“Delicious,” Charlotte replied in all honesty. “I think your new oven works just fine.”

Bitsy beamed. “Me too, but I wanted another opinion. Now, what's all this I've been hearing? Someone said that
you
were the one who found Drew's body.”

“Well, I—”

At that moment the phone rang. Though a shadow of annoyance crossed Bitsy's face at the intrusion, Charlotte felt like grinning from ear to ear. There was no way Bitsy would ignore a phone call. When the phone rang a second time, Bitsy glared at the extension hanging on the wall above the countertop, then gave a disgusted grunt. “Guess I'd better get that,” she said as she pushed away from the table. “I'll take the call on the portable in the hallway,” she told Charlotte as she walked past the extension. “If it's who I suspect it is, it might take a while. Help yourself to some more muffins,” she called out over her shoulder, “and we'll talk later.” Then she disappeared through the doorway.

Charlotte was able to get the kitchen clean and had started dusting in the parlour when Bitsy wandered in with the portable phone still pressed to her ear.

“Any time, Norma,” Charlotte heard her say. “Talk to you later, then. Bye now.” The old lady clicked the phone off. “My goodness, how that woman can talk,” she said to Charlotte. “And what a gossip!”

Given Bitsy's penchant for gossip, Charlotte almost choked to keep from laughing, and she quickly turned away to hide her reaction.

“Now! About Drew—Oh, no!” Bitsy suddenly gasped. “Look at this.”

When Charlotte turned to see why Bitsy sounded so distressed, the old lady had set the phone down and had picked up a large book off the coffee table.

She held the book out to show Charlotte. “Jenny went off and forgot her yearbook,” she explained. “She'd brought it with her so she could brush up on everyone's names for the reunion.”

“You can always mail it to her,” Charlotte suggested.

“Hmm, I suppose so.” With a shrug, Bitsy placed the book back onto the table. “It sure came in handy, though. I knew a lot of Jenny's friends back then, and she and I went through it before she left Sunday evening, so she could bring me up to date on what's happened to the ones who showed up.

“Drew Bergeron was in that class, you know,” Bitsy continued. “Here, I'll show you.” She leaned over and thumbed through the pages. “Jenny said that everyone at the reunion was in shock when they heard what happened, especially since he was already supposed to be dead. She said there were all kinds of stories going around about him.” She thumped one of the pages. “Look at this, Charlotte.”

Curiosity was a vice and possibly a sin, Charlotte decided. Unable to resist the temptation to get a glimpse of a younger Drew Bergeron, she moved closer to the table. From the looks of the photo, it had been taken at a party, probably a fraternity party, she figured, since the two men and the woman in the picture were holding out beer cans, as if toasting some occasion.

“That's him,” Bitsy said, pointing to the man on the left side of the picture. “And that's Bill and Marian Hebert with him. Of course, they weren't married then,” she added.

Charlotte leaned closer to get a better look. Though she'd never met Bill Hebert, she'd seen pictures of him. But if Bitsy hadn't told her who the couple was, she would never have recognized either of them. “I knew they had all been friends,” she murmured, “but I guess I didn't realize just how long they had been friends.”

“Oh, my, yes—all three of them grew up together. In fact, Jenny said that it had always been a toss-up as to which of the two men Marian would end up with.”

Unbidden, Marian Hebert's bitter words about Drew suddenly popped into Charlotte's head.
The S.O.B. got exactly what he deserved.
How sad, she thought. A lifetime friendship ruined, and all because of business dealings. She'd always heard that you should never do business with friends or relatives, and if nothing else, the Bergerons and the Heberts were perfect examples as to why the old adage was true.