Death Tidies Up (9 page)

“That's not funny, Maddie.”

“Neither is you fainting,” she shot back.

Charlotte sighed.
Give me patience, Lord.
“Look, I've already gotten one lecture tonight from Hank, so I don't need another one. Why Judith felt she had to call you anyway is beyond me.”

“Well that's a fine how-do-you-do,” Madeline snapped. “In case you've forgotten, I am your sister. And why wouldn't my own daughter call me?”

Why indeed? thought Charlotte as the words unstable, irresponsible, and selfish came to mind.

Madeline's divorce from her first husband had devastated her. She had truly loved Johnny Monroe, but Johnny had a roving eye that not even the love of his wife or two little children could compete with. For years after the divorce, Madeline had been barely able to function on a daily basis, and much of the care of her two children had fallen on Charlotte's shoulders. Even Madeline had admitted on more than one occasion, albeit out of jealousy, that Charlotte had always been more of a mother to her children than she had.

Truth was, Judith and her brother, Daniel, were more likely to call Charlotte about something than call their own mother. It was one of those family things that everyone knew but no one ever talked about.

Charlotte sighed. “Oh, now Maddie, don't get in a snit. You know I didn't mean anything,” she said. “And I do appreciate your concern. It's just that—well, it's just been one of those days. I'm fine. Really I am. It was probably just the circumstances. It's not every day that I find a dead man. But of course Hank insisted on setting me up with an appointment for a checkup next week anyway.”

“I suppose you're right. Finding that dead man and all would certainly be enough to make
me
pass out for sure. But you might as well get a checkup anyway, just to be on the safe side.” Madeline paused, then, “Another reason I called was to find out if you're feeling up to coming over tomorrow now that you won't be working.”

Originally, Charlotte had excused herself from the family's regular Sunday lunch after church due to the Devilier job. Because their family was small, years ago she and Madeline had started the tradition of taking turns hosting the Sunday lunches after church services on alternating Sundays. Even with the busy lives that their children led, without fail, everyone always tried to show up.

“Yes, I'll be there,” Charlotte replied.

“Good. Daniel is going to barbecue and I needed to know how much chicken to buy in the morning.”

“Just a breast will be plenty for me,” Charlotte told her. “Now at the risk of sounding like an old lady, I
am
going to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“Sorry about that,” Madeline admitted. “You know I don't think of you as getting old. Besides, sixty really isn't that old, not in this day and time.”

“Good night, Maddie, and just remember, you're only five years younger than me.”

Maddie groaned. “Thanks for reminding me, dear sister of mine. And by the way, why don't you go to bed now?” With a giggle, Madeline hung up the phone, and Charlotte did the same.

 

She was just too tired to sleep, Charlotte finally decided two hours later as she switched the bedside lamp back on. That had to be the reason she couldn't sleep.

After she'd hung up from talking to Maddie, she'd gone straight to bed. She'd read a bit, just enough to relax her into thinking she could finally fall asleep. But the minute she'd turned off the lamp, visions of Drew Bergeron's dead eyes staring at her filled her mind. She'd tried deep-breathing exercises, and she'd even resorted to counting sheep. But nothing had worked. Those dead eyes just wouldn't go away.

Charlotte reached for the book she'd been reading earlier, but not even a chapter later, the detective in the novel stumbled upon a dead body.

With a groan, Charlotte slammed the book shut and dropped it on the floor. Maybe a glass of milk would help, she decided, pushing herself out of the bed. And maybe if she watched a little television…something nice and boring like one of the old black-and-white movies that sometimes played late at night.

 

He was on the porch…From the front window she could see the shadowy figure skulking around. Then, suddenly he turned and saw her staring out at him. He looked straight at her with those dead eyes of his, then he disappeared.

Thwack, thwack…Oh, dear Lord, he was trying to break down her front door….

C
harlotte awoke with a start, her heart racing beneath her breasts. A dream, it was just a dream, she kept telling herself. But no, it had been far worse than
just
a dream. It had been a full-blown nightmare…every single woman's nightmare.

Still feeling a bit disoriented even as her heart slowed to a steady thud, she frowned when she suddenly realized that she was on the living room sofa instead of her bed.

And the television was on.

Her frown deepened. “Oh great,” she grumbled. “Just wonderful.” On the TV screen, Clint Eastwood had his gun drawn and was trying to break down a door. It was a scene from an old
Dirty Harry
episode that she recognized all too well. That was what had probably awakened her to begin with.

So what time was it anyway? When she turned her head to look up at the cuckoo clock on the wall above the sofa, she suddenly groaned with pain and grabbed the back right side of her neck. Not only was it just barely six o'clock—not even daylight yet—but worse, now she had a crick in her neck.

“That's what you get for falling asleep on the sofa,” she muttered.

From beneath the cover over his cage, Sweety Boy squawked.

“No, it's not time to get up yet,” she said irritably. “Go back to sleep.”

Careful to keep her head straight, she eased herself up. Once she was standing, she decided that maybe an aspirin would help, that and another hour or so of sleep…in her bed, this time.

 

It seemed that only minutes had passed when Charlotte again awoke with a start, this time to the sound of a ringing in her ears. Several seconds passed before she realized that the ringing was actually the doorbell, and several more seconds passed before it dawned on her that tiny jets of sunlight were peeping through the closed blinds that covered her solitary bedroom window.

A quick glance at her clock radio on the bedside table told her it was almost nine, but who on earth would be at her door this early on a Sunday morning?

As if he'd heard her unspoken question, Louis Thibodeaux's muffled voice called out, “Charlotte, answer the door. I know you're in there.”

Charlotte groaned, “Oh, good grief!”

“Charlotte!”

“Hold your horses!” she yelled. “Just a minute!”

When she tried to sit up, the dull ache in her neck reminded her of the crick she'd gotten from sleeping on the sofa. Though the aspirin had numbed the pain somewhat, the crick was still there.

Wondering why on earth Louis was at her door so early, she slipped into her housecoat and the moccasins she favored for house shoes. Then she quickly brushed her hair.

At least her hair wasn't sticking out all over the place the way it had been on Friday morning, she thought, eyeing her reflection in the mirror one last time before heading for the living room. The new haircut had helped, and despite her restless night, her hair had fallen nicely in place. She'd have to remember to tell Valerie how pleased she was with it the next time she saw her.

Now if she could only have a cup of coffee before facing Louis, she thought irritably as she unlocked the front door to let him in.

Unlike Charlotte, Louis was dressed. His hair was still damp from the shower, and there was a tiny telltale cut on his chin where he'd nicked himself shaving.

The moment Louis said, “Good morning,” and stepped through the doorway, Sweety Boy began squawking inside the covered cage as if he was being terrorized.

“That bird doesn't like me.”

Ignoring Louis for the moment, Charlotte turned her attention toward the cage. “It's okay, Boy,” she soothed, easing the cover off the cage. “Calm down now. It's okay.”

After a moment, the little parakeet's squawks quieted to an occasional pitiful chirp as he hovered on his perch, and Charlotte faced Louis again.

With a quick scowl directed at the cage, he asked, “Were you still sleeping?”

The hint of disapproval in his tone grated on her caffeine-starved nerves, and Charlotte simply glared up at him. “Duh, it is Sunday morning,” she told him.

“But you're always up by seven at the latest. And no, I haven't been spying on you or playing Peeping Tom,” he added, “so just get that look off your face. You and I both know that the walls in this old house are almost thin enough to see through.”

It was true. The dividing wall between his half of the double and hers wasn't that thick or insulated, if at all, and too many nights and mornings, she'd heard his movements on the other side of that wall. It stood to reason that if she could hear him, he could hear her as well.

“Are you sick?”

“No,” she snapped. “I am not sick, and I'm getting pretty tired of everyone insisting that there's something wrong with me. But—if you must know—I simply didn't sleep very well last night.”

Louis' eyebrows slanted into a frown. “Okay, you're not sick, so what's wrong with your neck?”

Charlotte shot him a withering glance, and instead of answering him, she motioned toward the kitchen. “Do you mind if I put on a pot of coffee first, Mr. Detective?
Before
you interrogate me,” she added.

“No need to get sarcastic,” he answered. “And by all means, have some coffee. Maybe it will improve your disposition.” Then he suddenly smirked. “Fell asleep on the sofa and got a crick, didn't you?”

To keep from hauling off and punching him, Charlotte did an about-face and stomped off toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Charlotte,” he called out from behind her. “Don't get mad. The only reason I knew about the crick was because I've done it myself a few times.”

Charlotte paused in the doorway of the kitchen, but she didn't turn around. Between gritted teeth, she asked, “Is there a specific reason you're over here this morning, or is this a social visit? Because if this is a social visit—”

“Actually, I'm here on official business,” he said, cutting her off. “Official police business,” he added, moving closer toward her. “I have to ask you some more questions about yesterday.”

“I should have guessed as much,” she grumbled, heading for the pantry where she kept the coffee.

“Well, given your—ah—attitude, the questions can wait until after you've had coffee.”

He was right, she thought as she filled the coffeepot with water and scooped coffee into the filter basket. She did have an attitude. But why? she wondered. Why did everything and everyone seem to irritate her lately, and for no real reason? Just because she felt as if she could chew nails was no excuse to take it out on Louis.

Hoping a few moments alone would help, and conscious of the time, Charlotte excused herself for a few minutes to put on her makeup while the coffee dripped. Church services began promptly at ten-thirty, and she figured if she allowed an hour for Louis' questions, she should still have time to finish dressing before she needed to leave.

By the time she'd applied a bit of makeup, she felt somewhat better and a little more in control. When she returned to the kitchen, Louis was seated at the table staring out the back window. He'd already poured them each a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, and the smell was heavenly.

“I hope you don't mind that I helped myself,” he told her as she sat down opposite him.

Charlotte started to shake her head but winced when a sharp pain shot through the side of her neck. “No, not at all,” she finally told him with a dismissive wave of her hand once the pain subsided.

“What you need for that crick is a good massage,” he told her, and before she realized his intentions or could protest, he had shoved out of his chair and was standing behind her.

The touch of his warm hands on her neck was a shock at first, and she went still even as her senses leaped to life.

“No, now don't tense up,” he told her. “Just relax and drink your coffee.”

Relax? Yeah, right, she thought as the palms of his hands slid against her skin while his thumbs gently but firmly kneaded the sore muscles in the side of her neck.

She should probably protest. She really should. But at the moment she was still too stunned to utter a sound, and there was no way on God's green earth that she could casually sit there and drink coffee while he was doing such delicious things to her stiff neck.

How long had it been since she'd experienced a man's hands on her? she wondered, relaxing somewhat in spite of herself. Too long, she decided as an unexpected warmth surged through her when his forefingers brushed just below her earlobes.

“You're tensing up again,” he warned as his fingers slipped down to just beneath the top edge of her pajamas and housecoat to knead the top of her shoulders as well.

A part of her wanted to relax, and she tried. She really tried. But that other part of her, the sensible, practical part, kept whispering all the reasons she shouldn't.

Then suddenly, it was no longer even an issue. “There now,” he said, with one last, warm squeeze before he withdrew his hands. “That should feel better.”

Almost as quickly as it had begun, it had ended, and within moments, he was once again seated across the table from her.

All Charlotte could do was stare at him while her cheeks burned and her thick tongue refused to function.
Ridiculous,
she thought.
This is ridiculous.
In a few days she would be sixty years old, and here she was, acting like the worst cliché of a simpering virgin just because a man had touched her intimately.

“Ah—th-thanks,” she finally blurted out as she slowly rotated her head from side to side. “That does feel a lot better.”

“You're welcome,” he told her. Then, as if he suspected how awkward the moment was for her, he pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket and got right down to business.

“Why don't we start from the beginning,” he suggested as he thumbed through the notebook. “Start from the time you first arrived—no, on second thought, start further back than that. On Friday night, when you did your walk-through, did you notice anything unusual or out of place then?”

Charlotte's throat suddenly went dry. Knowing Louis, he wasn't going to be too pleased with her answer…if she told the truth. To give herself a moment to think about how she should answer, she took a slow sip of the still-warm coffee. By the time she finally set the cup down, she'd decided that there was no way around it, no choice but to tell the truth, straight out.

“I meant to mention this Friday night during dinner,” she said. “And I started to—if you recall—but I got sidetracked when you began talking about Vince Roussel and his son, Todd. Once we got caught up in picking out all of that stuff for your house—” She shrugged. “I forgot about the Devilier house.”

Louis never once interrupted her as she began explaining about all the signs she'd found that made her think that someone had been camping out in the old house. And throughout her explanation, he maintained a poker face that didn't give her a clue as to his reaction to what she was telling him, one way or another.

“I really meant to tell you,” she said when she had finished. “But—” She shrugged.

“And I suppose you conveniently forgot to mention it again yesterday when Judith was questioning you.”

The tone of his voice should have warned her, but Charlotte ignored it. “If you remember right,” she continued, “I was a bit upset yesterday, what with finding poor Drew's body and all. Then, after I fainted, I—”

Suddenly, without warning, Louis slammed his fist against the table so hard that coffee sloshed over the edge of the cups. “Poor Drew, my hind foot!” he roared. “I can't believe this crap! Of all the asinine stunts you've pulled, this one takes the cake.” He leaned menacingly across the table. “Did it ever occur to you even once that after finding that stuff on Friday night, going back in there by yourself on Saturday might have been dangerous? And what about
poor Drew?”
He spat the words out as if they were bitterly foul. “Maybe, just maybe, if you had mentioned this stuff on Friday night, then
poor Drew
might still be alive instead of dead meat on a slab at the morgue?”

All Charlotte could do was stare at him in stunned disbelief. She'd expected him to be upset that she hadn't told him what she'd found. And she was both gratified and annoyed that he was concerned with her safety, but the very idea that
she
was somehow responsible for…

Shock quickly yielded to fury, and she jumped to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered. “How dare you sit there and say such things to me! And how dare you insinuate that Drew Bergeron's death is my fault.”

“Sit down, Charlotte!” he warned in a no-nonsense tone.

“I will not sit down. You owe me an apology, and either you apologize or you can get out of my house right this minute.”

“And if I don't?”

“I—I'll—”

“You'll do what?” Louis shot back. “Call the police?”

Long seconds ticked by as Charlotte tried, and failed, to come up with a response. Then, from the doorway, an unexpected voice suddenly intruded.

“Hey, you guys!”

Charlotte and Louis both turned to stare as Judith marched into the kitchen.

“Did I hear someone say something about calling the police? And what's all the shouting about? I could hear you two all the way out in the driveway.”

“Detective Thibodeaux was just leaving,” Charlotte snapped as she marched over to the cabinet and yanked a paper towel off the towel rack beside the sink.

“No, Detective Thibodeaux was not just leaving,” Louis drawled. “Detective Thibodeaux was just fix'n to apologize to your aunt for being so rude and disrespectful and losing his temper. But your aunt did a very foolish thing.”

“Yeah, so I gathered from the parts I heard,” Judith replied. “In fact, the whole neighborhood probably heard it.” She turned to Charlotte. “Well?” she asked. “Is he leaving or staying? Whichever, I would love to have a cup of that coffee.”