Death Tidies Up (4 page)

“Oh, Charlotte, that's what I truly miss about you. You always seemed to understand and know just the right thing to say. If it wasn't for Daisy being such a jewel, I'd try to steal you back from Marian in a heartbeat.”

“I take it that Daisy is still with you then.”

“Yes—yes, she is, and I can never thank you enough for recommending her. In fact, in a roundabout way, she's the reason I'm calling Marian. Daisy told me she'd heard that Marian is handling the Devilier apartments. Daisy knew that I've been looking for something to use as a guest residence for out-of-town friends during Mardi Gras and the Jazz Fest. Since those apartments are just down the block from me, they would be a perfect location. Is Marian in?”

Charlotte glanced up and was surprised to see Marian standing in the doorway. How long had she been standing there? Charlotte wondered. How long had she been listening and watching? And why the strange look, a seething look of bitterness that was totally out of character?

Charlotte shifted uneasily, and though she averted her gaze, she couldn't shake the image of Marian's expression or the uncomfortable feeling it gave her.

“H
old on a moment, Katherine, and I'll see if she can take your call.”

“Thanks, Charlotte,” Katherine replied, “and it's been really nice talking to you again.”

“Same here,” Charlotte answered. Muffling the receiver against her chest, she glanced over at Marian again. “It's Katherine Bergeron,” she told her softly. “She wants to talk about leasing one of the Devilier apartments.”

Several moments passed in which Charlotte feared that Marian was going to refuse the call. Finally, as if gathering her strength, Marian took a deep breath, and letting it out in a heavy sigh, she stepped over to the desk and took the receiver from Charlotte.

As Marian greeted Katherine, she was all business, her tone brisk as she paced back and forth in front of the desk.

Still puzzled by Marian's initial reaction to the call since, according to Katherine, she and Marian were such good friends, Charlotte took her time gathering her supplies. Normally, she didn't make a habit of eavesdropping on her clients, but Marian's strange, erratic behavior worried her.

“No, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel our appointment,” Charlotte heard Marian say. “Aaron is sick,” she explained. “Just a stomach virus, I think, but I'm taking him to the doctor later this afternoon, and I expect to be tied up most of the weekend. If you want to, however,
you
could still look at the apartments on your own. B.J. should be home soon, and I'll leave an extra set of keys with him. One thing though,” she added. “Right now the apartments aren't very presentable. They're a mess—construction and all of that. But if you wait until Sunday afternoon, they should be cleaned up by then.”

Still puzzled but satisfied that Marian was handling things okay and not wanting to seem too obvious about eavesdropping, Charlotte chose that moment to slip out of the room. After loading her vacuum cleaner and supplies into her van, she returned to the office to let Marian know she was leaving.

She found Marian seated at the desk, her head slumped forward.

“Ah, excuse me, but I wanted to let you know that I'm leaving now.”

Marian slowly raised her head, and when she faced Charlotte and nodded, there was a glazed look of despair about her.

Charlotte stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

The younger woman gave a one-shouldered shrug that reminded Charlotte of Aaron's earlier gesture.

“Oh, Marian, what's wrong?” she asked, growing more concerned.

“It's just—I—” Marian shook her head. “Ever since Bill died, it's been a strain to even talk to Katherine. It takes everything I have to be civil. Katherine still insists on holding on to the fantasy that Bill was the one who quit working for Drew, that he resigned in order to start his own company. And she refuses to even acknowledge that the real reason Bill left the agency was that Drew out-and-out fired him. After it happened, things were never the same again between us, any of us.”

When Bitsy had first told Charlotte about Drew's and Bill's relationship, Charlotte had ignored the information as simply gossip. But now it seemed as if the old lady had been right all along. It also explained Marian's initial reaction to Katherine's call.

“It didn't use to be that way,” Marian continued in a sad, longing voice. “There was a time when the three of us—Bill, Drew, and I—were inseparable. Then, when Drew married Katherine, we grew even closer…for a while. But that was a long time ago…an eternity.”

Charlotte squeezed Marian's shoulder. “I wonder, have you ever considered that maybe Katherine truly doesn't realize what really happened, that Drew fired Bill? Maybe she only knows what her husband told her,” she offered by way of explanation.

Marian simply stared at Charlotte. “Oh, I've considered it all right. At first. I even tried to set her straight about it. But ever since Drew's plane went down, she's been different. She only hears what she wants to hear, and she absolutely refuses to listen to anything negative about him. In her eyes, he was a saint.” Marian laughed, a bitter sound without humor. “But I knew him long before he married Katherine. And I know what he's—what he
was
capable of. Drew Bergeron was no saint by any stretch of the imagination. But, hey—” Marian suddenly brightened, albeit assuming a facade that Charlotte recognized for what it was, a cover-up for her embarrassment. “I'm sure you have better things to do than to listen to my boring past.”

Charlotte smiled gently. “Any time you need someone to talk to, my middle name is discretion.” Then, to save Marian further embarrassment, Charlotte changed the subject. “I do have to get going though, but good luck with Aaron—I hope he feels better soon—and I'll see you on Monday.”

After retrieving her purse from the kitchen, Charlotte stopped by Aaron's room on her way out to say good-bye. But the little boy was curled up on his bed, fast asleep.

The sleep of the angels, she thought. All little children looked like angels while they slept. How many times had she stood just inside her own little boy's bedroom and simply watched him sleep? Not enough, she decided as a heavy feeling settled in her chest. And her son was no longer a little boy but a grown man.

Unbidden, a quote from Agatha Christie popped into her mind.
One doesn't recognize in one's life the really important moments—not until it's too late.
No truer words had ever been spoken, Charlotte decided as the heaviness in her chest grew. If only she'd known then what she knew now, if she'd realized how fast the years would go by, just how soon she'd be facing her sixtieth birthday, wouldn't she have savored those moments a lot more?

Easing out of the room, Charlotte felt a tear slide down her cheek. Maybe she would have, she thought as she slowly made her way down the hall. At least she hoped she would have.

 

Outside, the afternoon sky was clouding over, giving the day a dreary cast that only seemed to deepen Charlotte's melancholy mood. As she trudged slowly down the narrow sidewalk to the van, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. The temptation to simply go home and crawl into bed was strong. But she still had her hair appointment, and as she'd told Marian, she still had one more chore to do, one last walk-through at the old Devilier house, all before she could call it a day.

Charlotte glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she just might have enough time to do the walk-through before it got dark.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled the van keys out of her apron pocket, but just as she unlocked the door, a battered old truck pulled up behind the van.

Recognizing the white truck, she almost groaned out loud. “Great,” she muttered. “Just what I need right now.”

The driver's side of the truck opened. “Hey there, Charlotte. I was wondering if I'd have the pleasure of seeing you today.”

Charlotte forced a friendly smile.
Careful though. Mustn't act too friendly,
she reminded herself. She'd learned early on that being discreet was the name of the game when dealing with the man approaching her.

Sam Roberts was a handyman of sorts who had been employed by Marian's husband first, then by Marian after her husband's death. If it hadn't been for the scraggly beard that Sam wore, he could have easily passed for a Willie Nelson look-alike.

But that was where any comparison between the two men came to a screeching halt. In Charlotte's opinion, Sam talked too much, for one thing. And he was loud. But it was the flirting that really got her goat. Not that she minded flirting. She'd been flirted with before and had done some flirting back, but Sam was different. She'd tried telling herself that his teasing was just his way of being friendly, but every time she talked to him, he always managed to say
something
that was just off-color enough to be offensive and make her really uncomfortable.

Now be nice, Charlotte,
her conscience cautioned.

Charlotte had always been the type of person to look for something positive about everyone she met, and she had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Sam had his good points too. According to Marian, he'd proven to be indispensable since Bill's death. And in all fairness, he worked hard and was good at his job. He also appeared to really care about Marian and her boys. From what she'd observed, he was always patient and kind to the boys despite Aaron's endless questions and B.J.'s sullen ways. And come to think of it, she'd noticed a marked difference in B.J.'s rebellious attitude any time that Sam was around. The teenager actually seemed to admire Sam, even look up to him. The good Lord only knew, the boy needed
someone
he could respect.

“So how's everything going with you, pretty lady?” Sam's dark eyes slowly raked her from head to foot, then back again. “Got everything under control…” His words trailed away suggestively. “Everything's all neat and tidied up as usual? Up at the house?” he finally added.

His inference was offensive and Charlotte responded with chilly politeness. “Everything's just fine
up at the house.”

Sam grinned knowingly. “Now, Charlotte, if you'd be nicer to me, I might be persuaded to take you out on the town and show you a good time.” He waggled his eyebrows,
à la
Groucho Marx. “Hey, a little jazz, a little razzmatazz…” He held out his arms and shuffled his feet, executing an intricate dance step. Then, without warning, he suddenly grabbed her. Before she could utter a protest, he whirled her around, and it was either follow him or stumble over her own feet. When she finally did open her mouth in protest, he abruptly stopped and released her, and Charlotte swallowed her protest.

In an instant, he grew sober, and a stilted expression came over his face as he took a step backward. “Or maybe
madame
would prefer something a bit more cultured around our fair city,” he said in a pseudo cultured voice. Bending forward at the waist in a mock formal bow, he continued. “A museum? Or the symphony? Or perhaps the opera?” He suddenly smirked. “If we had an opera, that is,” he added.

The whole thing had happened in a matter of moments, and Charlotte was still trying to recover from the shock of it all. He'd asked her out before, and she suspected that he already knew that her answer would always be no. He simply wasn't her type. Still, he asked every time he saw her.

Gathering her wits about her, she forced a saccharine smile. “Thanks for asking, but no thanks. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

He slapped his hand over his chest in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh,” he groaned. “You wound me deeply, fair lady.”

“Yeah, right!” she retorted, unable to suppress the sarcastic rejoinder. “Sam Roberts, you're about as full of baloney as they come.” The man was incorrigible and outrageous to boot. “Now—if you'll excuse me—I have places to go and things to do.”

Sam threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That's what I like about you, Charlotte. You say what you mean and mean what you say—but here, let me get that door for you.”

With one hand he opened the door of the van, and with his other hand, he made a wide sweeping arc. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”

Charlotte stiffened, not sure of what to expect next, but she wasted no time climbing inside the van. To her relief, Sam simply shut the door.

“You take care now, Miss Charlotte,” he told her, with a mock salute. “See ya next time.”

Not if I see you first,
Charlotte thought as she drove away.

 

Though Charlotte had good intentions, it was almost six before she finally pulled into the small parking lot behind the Devilier house. When she'd arrived for her hair appointment, Valerie was still busy with another customer and she'd had to wait a precious twenty minutes for her turn. Then she'd gotten stuck in a traffic jam, thanks to a malfunctioning traffic light and the usual Friday five o'clock rush of commuters trying to get a jump start on the weekend.

The parking area behind the Devilier house took up about half of the back property, and Charlotte estimated that it was just large enough to accommodate eight to ten vehicles.

The other half of the backyard had been turned into a small garden area, an oasis landscaped with azaleas, sweet olive, small palms, and night-blooming jasmine.

At the edge of the parking lot was a magnificent live oak that had to be at least a hundred years old judging from its size alone. The oak offered shade both to the parking lot and to the garden.

As Charlotte admired the old oak, she wondered if the tree was a member of the exclusive Live Oak Society. It always made her smile when she thought about the unusual club where membership requirements were based on the age and size of the oak, and dues consisted of forty-five acorns a year.

“Nowhere but New Orleans,” she murmured.

Charlotte's smile faded. Time was a-wasting. It was already twilight, and soon the twilight would fade into darkness. For safety's sake, Charlotte didn't like the idea of being caught all alone in the big old empty house after dark.

Vince Roussel, the owner of the construction company in charge of the renovation, had given her a master key. With the house key firmly in one hand and her car keys in the other, she locked the van and hurried to the back entrance of the house.

Thank goodness enough light poured in through the fanlight above the door for her to see, Charlotte thought as she stepped into the back hallway. Roussel had assured her that the electricity and the water would be turned on by the time her crew came in for the cleanup, but the moment she was inside, she tested the light switches just to make sure. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when lights in the dim entrance hall came on.

“Awesome,” she whispered, as her eyes swept over the wide hallway. The Devilier house on the outside was a wonderful specimen of the Greek Revival era. Charlotte had been in many magnificent homes over the years she'd worked in the Garden District, but even with the thick layer of sawdust and dirt that seemed to cover every available surface, the inside of the Devilier renovation was a thing of beauty with its high ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, and the intricately molded ceiling medallions and cornices.