Death Tidies Up (7 page)

“C
harrrrlotte!”

Janet, Charlotte thought, her heart pounding. Janet was the one screaming out her name.

It was the thump-thump of running footsteps above her that finally jerked her into action. Was someone chasing Janet and Cheré? Were they in danger?

A weapon. She needed a weapon of some sort. Charlotte glanced frantically around the room. Nothing. There was nothing she could use except…her fingers tightened on the spray bottle of ammonia in her hand.
Better than nothing.

Vaguely aware that Emily had bolted from the bathroom, Charlotte dashed out into the hallway and sprinted for the stairs. “You stay down here,” she shouted at Emily.

Halfway up the staircase, she met the other two women scrambling down.

“What on earth?” Charlotte cried. “What's going on?”

Janet was shivering so hard she could barely talk. Crowded close behind her, Cheré's face was drained of color, and her dark eyes were wide with horror.

“D-dead,” Janet stuttered, her voice cracking. “I—I turned on th-the light, and th-there's a dead man in—in the closet.”

A dead man…dead…
Charlotte's stomach turned queasy, and she heard Emily utter a startled cry from the foot of the stairs.

“Okay, okay, hon.” Charlotte squeezed Janet's arm. “Now just calm down. Are you sure—sure he's dead?”

“Well, he's not moving,” Janet cried. “And—and I don't th-think he's breathing.”

Charlotte squeezed her arm again. “But you don't know for sure.” Janet shook her head with short, jerky motions.

Chere shuddered. “He—he looked dead to me,” she whispered.

“But neither of you felt for a pulse?” One look at the horrified expressions on their faces told her they hadn't. “No, of course you didn't.” She took a deep breath, and though she was already pretty sure what the answer would be, she asked anyway. “Which apartment—which one were you cleaning?”

“The one to the left of the landing,” Cheré told her.

Charlotte swallowed hard. It was the same one, the one she'd found the food sacks in during her walk-through, the one that had the toothpaste smeared in the bathroom sink. “Which room?”

“The m—master bedroom,” Janet whispered. “He—he's in the walk-in closet.”

Charlotte knew what she had to do. Whether she wanted to or not—and she most definitely did not want to—she was going to have to check it out for herself. What if the man wasn't really dead? What if he was just unconscious and needed help?

“Okay, here's what we're going to do,” she told them. “You two join Emily downstairs while I go check. And here—” She handed Janet the bottle of ammonia. “Take this with you.” Then she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and thrust it at Cheré. “You take this and call the police. Be sure and ask for my niece.”

Cheré took the phone. “But Charlotte!”

Charlotte shook her head. “It'll be okay. Just go.” Willing her legs to move, she squeezed past the two women and hurried up the remaining stairs.

Once she was inside the apartment, though, she hesitated at the door to the master bedroom to catch her breath.

A sleeping bag was spread out in the middle of the room on the floor. Near the foot of the sleeping bag was an open duffel with clothes spilling out of it, and in the midst of the clothes was a small camera, one of the disposable kind, she noted. And beside the camera were several pictures scattered about.

“Weird,” she murmured. For one thing, the sleeping bag and the duffel bag both looked almost brand-new. And expensive.
And don't forget the toothpaste in the sink.

It was just as she'd suspected, she thought, eyeing the dark green sleeping bag. Someone, probably the man in the closet,
had
been camping out in the empty house after all.

With a heavy feeling of dread, Charlotte moved farther into the room. Maybe she'd been wrong about the homeless angle after all. But if the man in the closet wasn't a homeless person, then who was he? And why had he been camping out in the old house?

The walk-in closet door was open. A wave of apprehension swept through her as she edged nearer the opening. Any minute she expected to see a hand or foot or some evidence of a body. But there was nothing yet, nothing but an odd-looking, half-smoked cigar that had been ground out into the floor.

Charlotte took the last two steps that would bring her to the closet door. Swallowing hard, she leaned forward and peeked around the door.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, as she reached out and grabbed the door frame to steady herself. The man was in the back corner of the closet, half sitting, half slumped sideways against the wall.

Though she wasn't exactly sure what she'd expected, the one thing she hadn't expected to see was a half-naked man wearing nothing but a purple feathered Mardi Gras mask and boxer shorts.

A Mardi Gras mask?

For what seemed like forever, all she could do was stare at the mask. It was a cheap one, the kind sold mostly to tourists, but it wasn't so much the mask itself that kept her gaze riveted as it was the dried blood along the side of the man's head.

The blood and his eyes. She was only about four feet away from him, but under the harsh glare of the closet light she could see that his eyes were wide open, staring out at her from behind the rounded eye slits of the mask. Like huge black holes, the pupils were already fixed and dilated.

Other than at funerals, she'd never actually seen a dead body, but she'd read enough mystery books and true-crime novels over the years to know the signs of death. She was almost ninety-nine point nine percent sure that the poor man was truly dead.

With a sinking heart and drawing in a deep breath for courage, Charlotte approached the man. Her eyes still glued to the mask, she leaned over him and touched him near the underside of his jaw, checking for any small sign of life.

Just as she'd expected, his skin was death cold to her touch, and there was no pulse.

She frowned. Strange; now that she was closer to him, something about the man seemed almost familiar, as if she'd seen him before. There was something about his build, or maybe it was because of the reddish-brown color of his thick hair.

For a moment more her hand hovered near the mask. If she could just see his face without the mask….

The muted sound of a distant siren suddenly broke through the silence. The police were coming…Judith.

It was then that the reality of the whole situation really hit her. With a cry of horror, Charlotte jerked her hand away and backed quickly toward the closet door. This was not fiction. This was not some murder mystery out of a book. This was the real thing.

Charlotte kept backing up until she was once again out of the closet and inside the bedroom. Only then did she realize how badly she was trembling. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she hugged them tightly as she stared downward.

Outside the house, the police siren grew louder. But inside, it was several moments before Charlotte could stop shaking, before she felt more in control.

She needed to vacate the room, she thought. It was a crime scene, and without thinking, she, along with Cheré and Janet, had already contaminated it. Charlotte winced. Judith would have a conniption fit.

Then suddenly, Charlotte narrowed her eyes as her vision once again focused. She'd been staring downward without really seeing what she was looking at. And what she'd been staring at was the stack of pictures beside the camera.

The top photo was a picture of a little girl who looked to be about four years old. It had been taken in an outside setting. Behind the little girl, a white gazebo sat beneath a huge oak. Again, a feeling of familiarity swept through her and niggled at Charlotte's memory. She'd seen that setting before…but where?

Think, Charlotte! Think!
But it was no use. No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't remember. First the dead man, and now this. What was wrong with her? Lord, maybe she
was
getting old after all. Or worse. Maybe she was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's?

Abruptly outside, the police siren died with a squawk. Then, in the distance, another siren sounded.

The police had arrived and more were on the way, which meant that even now, Judith could be coming through the front door. With one last searching glance at the photo, Charlotte hurried from the room.

Downstairs in the front foyer, two uniformed police officers were already questioning Cheré, Janet, and Emily by the time that Charlotte reached the first floor.

Though Charlotte didn't recognize the older officer, she was pretty sure she recognized the younger of the two. If she remembered right, his first name was Billy, and though she couldn't recall his last name, she did recall that he'd been pushy and rude the last time they'd met.

The last time they'd met…the day she'd learned that Jackson Dubuisson had been murdered….

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she approached the small group. She nodded a greeting at both of the men; then, ignoring them, she turned to Cheré. “Did you speak to Judith?”

“Yes, ma'am. She said she was on her way.”

“Ah, excuse me,” the older office interrupted in a no-non-sense voice that dripped with sarcasm. “But who are you?”

Before Charlotte could answer, the younger officer spoke up. “It's okay, Hal,” he told his partner. “She's Detective Monroe's aunt.” He turned to Charlotte. “Isn't that right, ma'am? Aren't you Judith's aunt?”

“Yes—yes, I am,” Charlotte answered. “And your name is Billy—” Still unable to recall his last name, she shrugged.

“Wilson, ma'am. Billy Wilson.”

Charlotte felt something tickle the back of her neck, and when she reached up to rub it, she realized she was sweating. “Well, I'd say it was good to see you again, Billy,” she murmured, suddenly distracted by the realization that she was sweating profusely, “but under the circumstances…” How could she be sweating when she felt so cold?

“I understand, ma'am. And speaking of circumstances, what can you tell us about the situation here?”

Charlotte began by explaining that her crew had been hired to do the clean-up of the Devilier house, but just as she got to the part where Janet had discovered the dead man, Judith burst in through the doorway. Following close behind her was a man Charlotte didn't recognize. Must be Judith's new partner, she thought.

“Hey, Aunt Charley, are you okay?”

Was she okay? Even as Charlotte nodded, she felt her knees go weak. And why, all of a sudden, was it so hot…and stuffy?

“What's this about a dead body?”

Dead body…dead body…
Again Charlotte opened her mouth to explain, and again she was interrupted when Louis Thibodeaux barged through the door. Charlotte frowned and felt a sudden chill again. Why was Louis there? He was supposed to be off duty and on his way to the camp.

Judith glanced his way and voiced the exact same thing Charlotte had been thinking. “Hey, Lou. What are you doing here?”

But Louis' dark eyes were boring a hole through Charlotte, and he ignored Judith and her question. “Charlotte? What's going on?” he demanded. “Who's dead?”

Dead…someone's dead…
He was there because he'd been worried about
her,
Charlotte realized. He must have heard something over his radio about a dead body and thought that she was—

The room blurred, and it was all that she could do to motion toward the ceiling. “Upstairs,” she whispered, swaying on her feet. “A—a dead man upstairs.”

Before she knew what was happening, Judith grabbed her on one side and Louis grabbed her on the other. “Whoa now, don't you pass out on us,” he said.

Charlotte was horrified. She shook her head. “Never—never passed out in my entire life,” she said. But her voice sounded strangely weak and distant, even to her own ears. In an effort to prove her point, she made a feeble effort to pull away from him, and that's when the lights went out.

C
harlotte came to with a start. She was flat on the floor and Judith was hovering over her, waving a foul-smelling vial under her nose. She could hear voices murmuring somewhere just behind her…Cheré and Janet. She shoved Judith's hand away.

“No—don't try to get up—not yet,” her niece ordered softly, gently pushing on her shoulder. “You're still pale, Auntie, so just lie still a moment more. Please,” she added.

As if someone turned up the volume, the voices grew more clear and distinct.

“She's coming to.” Janet's voice.

“I knew I shouldn't have let her go up there in the first place.” Cheré.

Charlotte was confused. What were they talking about? And what on earth was she doing on the floor? “Wh—what happened?” she whispered. But as soon as the words left her mouth, it all came back.

“You passed out, Auntie,” Judith told her, confirming Charlotte's own conclusions.

“Here, Monroe.” Louis' face swam into her vision just behind Judith. He handed Judith what looked like a wet cloth of some kind. “All I had was a handkerchief, but it's clean.”

“Thanks, Lou.” When Judith began blotting Charlotte's forehead and cheeks, Charlotte pushed away her niece's hand yet again.

“I'm okay, hon. Please stop making such a fuss.”

“Yeah, right, Aunt Charley. You're just peachy. That's why you passed out.”

“Judith.” Emily Coleman appeared. “Here's some water.” She handed Judith a cup.

“Thanks, Emily.” Judith took the cup. “Drink this, Auntie.”

“I'm not thirsty.”

“Drink it anyway.”

Only because arguing was too big an effort did Charlotte finally give in and allow Judith to lift her head enough to drink the water.

Behind them, out of Charlotte's line of vision, a gruff male voice called out, “Hey, Judith!”

Judith gently lowered Charlotte's head back onto the floor again, then turned toward the direction of the voice. “Yeah, Will.”

“I'm going on up and check out the D.B.,” he said.

Judith stiffened, and Charlotte saw her hand tighten around the wet handkerchief. “Wait up a minute, Will, and I'll go with you.”

Only because Charlotte knew her niece so well was she able to detect the slight edge in her tone. That and the panicky look on Judith's face confirmed what she'd suspected when she'd first talked to Louis about her niece's new partner. Something was going on between the two, something that Louis was aware of and didn't like, judging from his attitude.

“I'm okay, hon,” Charlotte reassured Judith. “Go do your job.”

“I've got a better idea,” Louis drawled. “Monroe, you stay here with Charlotte, and I'll go baby-sit Willy boy.”

“Now, Lou. Take it easy.”

Louis shot Judith a smug look. “I've been around a long time, little girl, and believe you me, I can handle that snotty hotshot with one arm tied behind my back.”

“Lou, don't—”

But either Louis didn't hear her or he purposely ignored her. “Hey, Richeaux,” he yelled. “Wait up.”

Charlotte caught the look of alarm on Judith's face, and while her niece was distracted, she pushed herself up off the floor. “What on earth is going on?” she asked, easing herself into a sitting position. “Is there a problem with this Will character?”

“Nothing,” Judith murmured distractedly, her gaze following the two men heading for the stairs. “Nothing's going on.”

“Nothing, my foot,” Charlotte scoffed. “Something's going on and I want to know what.”

Judith didn't answer until the men had disappeared up the staircase. “Give it a rest, Auntie,” she said, turning her attention back to Charlotte. “Believe me, now is not the time or the place.” She cast another worried glance toward the stairs. Then, with a sigh, she turned back to Charlotte. “I hate to, but if you're feeling up to it, I need to ask you some questions, Auntie. But when we're finished here, I want you to have one of your crew drive you home. And when you get there, I want you to promise me that you'll call Hank and tell him about this fainting spell you just had.”

The best defense is an offense.
Charlotte knew her niece was worried about her, but she was also well aware that Judith was purposely changing the subject. Before she could protest, though, Judith shook her finger at her. “If you don't tell him, I will,” she threatened. “When's the last time you had a good checkup?”

Charlotte pursed her lips stubbornly and glared back at her niece.

Judith's eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh! Just as I thought. You can't even remember, can you? Well, it's past time. Now promise me you'll call him.”

Charlotte released a heavy sigh. Judith was right. She
couldn't
remember the last time she'd had a checkup. But there hadn't been a reason to go running to a doctor, she consoled herself. It was probably just the stress of the moment. After all, it wasn't every day that she found a half-naked dead man. And up until then, she'd felt just fine.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Well, almost fine, she amended. She had been a bit more tired than usual lately. But the thought of turning sixty was enough to make anyone tired. Wasn't it? Of course it was.

But you fainted…you passed out cold….
Charlotte grimaced. Bottom line was that in spite of all of her excuses, and as much as she would have liked to pretend that she hadn't fainted, she had.

“Aunt Char-ly. I'm waiting.”

Charlotte never had been one who could give in graciously, and she most certainly didn't like to be bullied, not even by her niece whom she knew loved her and meant well. “Okay, okay, I promise,” she muttered irritably.

 

While Judith questioned Charlotte and each of her crew, Charlotte rested on the chaise longue. Cheré had wiped most of the dust off of the plastic cover, and she, along with Judith and the others, had insisted that Charlotte sit there until they were allowed to leave.

Though Charlotte was extremely uncomfortable with all the fuss everyone was making over her, she still felt a bit weak in the knees and was glad to have somewhere to sit.

When Louis and Will returned from upstairs, Judith broke away to confer with her new partner.

From where Charlotte sat, she had a perfect view of all the goings-on. Cheré, Emily, and Janet huddled around the marble-top table across from where she sat, Will and Judith were talking near the entrance door, and over by the foot of the staircase, Louis was grilling Billy Wilson and his partner, Hal.

Watching Louis cross-examine the patrolmen, Charlotte thanked her lucky stars that Judith, and not Louis, had been the one who had interrogated her crew.

Louis could be intimidating when he chose to, and though they had called a truce of sorts since he'd begun renting her double, the gruff detective seemed to have a gift for getting on her last nerve. Part of her bias toward him, she knew, had a lot to do with his outdated macho, chauvinistic attitude, but she also still felt the sting of humiliation every time she remembered his harsh accusations and the shabby way he'd treated her during the Dubuisson investigation.

As if he could feel her watching him, he glanced her way. For a long moment, he stared at her, and the searching look of concern he gave her did funny things to her insides. After what seemed like forever, as if satisfied that she was okay, he turned back to the patrolmen.

Such an enigma, she thought. The man was a puzzle she'd yet to figure out. In his own way, he truly cared about people, and he was completely trustworthy and honest to a fault, albeit sometimes brutally so. And if she were equally honest, she'd have to admit that, all in all, despite his many shortcomings, he'd be one of the first people she'd call if she were ever in a real bind.

Louis pointed up the stairs; then, with a nod to the two patrolmen, he walked over to where Judith and Will were standing.

At that moment, more police arrived. From the looks of the equipment they were carrying, Charlotte figured they were from the crime scene division. With all of the commotion, she couldn't quite hear what Louis said to Judith, but she had no trouble whatsoever hearing Judith's response.

“No way!” she argued.

“I swear it,” he retorted.

“This I've got to see.” Judith did an about-face, and with Louis and Will trailing after her, she threaded her way through the crowd of policemen who had gathered near the foot of the stairs.

“Ah, Charlotte?”

Charlotte turned her head to where Cheré was standing.

“How are you feeling now?”

Charlotte made a face. “Contrary to everyone's opinion, I'm doing just fine. My goodness, such a fuss over nothing.”

“It wasn't just nothing and you know it. Judith's right. You need to get a checkup.” Then she waved a dismissing hand. “But meantime, about right now I think we could all use some of that iced tea you brought. No—no, don't get up. Just tell me where it is and I'll get it.”

Charlotte sighed. “Oh, for pity's sake. Look behind the driver's seat in my van. It's in the blue ice chest. Cups are in the plastic grocery sack beside the ice chest. And while you're at it, you might as well bring me some too, since it looks like we're going to be here a while.”

Cheré only got as far as the door, where a policeman stopped her. “Sorry, ma'am, I can't let you leave until the detectives say so.”

“I'm not leaving,” Cheré told him. I'm just going to the van to get something to drink for Ms. LaRue—Detective Monroe's aunt.”

He shook his head. “No can do, but if you'll tell me where it's at, I'll send someone after it for you.”

“Oh, good grief,” Cheré retorted. “In the ice chest in the back of that white van—a jug of tea. And tell whoever you send to bring those plastic cups in that grocery sack too.”

A few minutes later, Cheré returned with the tea. She had just poured Charlotte a cup when Judith came down the stairs.

“Gather around, ladies,” she told the crew. “I've got some more questions to ask—and if there's any to spare, I'd love to have some of that tea.”

She waited until Cheré poured her a cup of the tea, took several swallows, then set the cup on the marble-topped table. After a searching look at each of the women, she motioned toward the stairs. “I know I asked this before, but I have to ask it again. Did any of you recognize the man in the closet?”

“I didn't go up there,” Emily said.

“Yes—yes, I know,” Judith replied. “You said you stayed downstairs. Right?”

Emily nodded.

“How about you, Cheré? Janet?”

Both women shook their heads.

“Aunt Charley?”

Charlotte hesitated a moment before she answered. “Not right off the bat,” she finally said. “I kinda thought he looked familiar, but I really couldn't see him that well, what with that mask he has on.”

Judith nodded. “He looked familiar for a good reason, Auntie. Lou—Detective Thibodeaux—says the man is Drew Bergeron, and I believe I remember that you once worked for him and his wife.”

Drew Bergeron.
Charlotte's insides quivered with disbelief. “That's impossible,” she blurted out. “Mr. Bergeron died over two years ago. Why, I went to his funeral.”