Death Tidies Up

Book 0: Charlotte LaRue Mystery

by Barbara Colley

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Between running her maid service (the successful Maid-for-a-Day) and fretting about her upcoming birthday (the dreaded 6-0), Charlotte LaRue doesn't have much time for gossip. But New Orleans's latest dust-up is hard to ignore--especially since it involves Marian Hebert, one of Charlotte's new clients. Turns out Marian's now-deceased husband once worked for his best friend Drew Bergeron's real-estate agency--and when the business deal soured, so did the friendship. The whole sordid affair came to an unfortunate end when Drew died in a plane crash--and Bill Hebert was killed in what some people insist on calling an accident. Others are convinced it was murder. Pretty juicy stuff, right? Charlotte doesn't think so. She's trying her best to forget all the rumors--she has more important things to worry about these days. Like vacuuming, window-washing. . .and her new job at the old Devilier house. The gorgeous historic home is being transformed into luxury apartments, and Maid-for-a-Day is in charge of the cleanup. Should be easy enough, Charlotte thinks--until she finds a barely-cold corpse in one of the closets. The police are sure the dead man is Drew Bergeron. Funny, considering Drew supposedly died years ago--and Charlotte distinctly remembers attending his funeral. Talk about messy. Suddenly all that gossip about the Heberts and Bergerons seems incredibly timely--and Charlotte wishes she'd listened just a little bit closer. . . With old rivalries flaring--and past secrets suddenly back in the present--Charlotte has a feeling this job will involve some real dirty work. Good thing she has a knack for cleaning up crimes. . .

Release date: January 1, 2004

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 292

Sample

The cooler, dry air was invigorating, and Charlotte LaRue sighed with pleasure as she stepped onto the front porch of her Victorian double.

The first touch of fall had finally arrived, but not without a battle. Just before midnight she’d been awakened by the clash of thunder and lightning as a cold front fought its way south. Then the rain had begun, torrents of it from the sound it had made beating against her roof. But the rain hadn’t lasted long, just long enough to wash away any remnants of the heat and humidity that typically smothered New Orleans.

Of course, by the time the so-called cold front reached the city, it wasn’t cold anymore. It was simply cooler. But cooler was good. She’d gladly take what she could get.

Charlotte sighed again. Today would have been the perfect day to raise the windows and air out her stuffy house. Too bad, she thought. Her aging air conditioner could use the rest, and she could use the reprieve from her outrageous electric bill as well.

But duty called. Today she had to go to work, and for the sake of security, she didn’t dare leave the windows open without being there. For the first time in a long time, she’d be working through the weekend as well, but Sunday might be a possibility, if she finished up the job on Saturday.

“Probably won’t last till Sunday,” she muttered. Unlike other parts of the country that had a real, honest-to-goodness fall season, October in New Orleans could be as mercurial as a woman going through menopause.

Charlotte winced at the mental analogy, but she had no illusions about the source. Aging…menopause…Change of seasons. Change of life. Another year passing. And with another year, yet another birthday.

But not just any birthday. This one was the big one, the one that made her insides shrivel and tighten with dread every time she thought about it.

Turning fifty had been bad enough, a half century bad enough, including menopause and all of the clichéd jokes about being over the hill. But there was just something about even the sound of sixty…

Charlotte shuddered. Then, with a determined shake of her head, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. She’d read somewhere that aging was a state of mind, the difference between thinking positive and negative. You’re only as old as you think. Or maybe that was feel? You’re only as old as you feel.

“Whichever,” she murmured with a shrug. Think…feel…It didn’t really matter. What mattered was concentrating on keeping a good positive attitude instead of dwelling on the negative. She should be grateful for all of the good things about her life, she thought. She had the love of her family and friends, and her health. Her maid service had grown by leaps and bounds, so much so that she’d had to expand and hire help.

Charlotte blinked several times and frowned. Her left eye itched. Though she loved this time of year, unfortunately, her allergies didn’t. She reached up to rub her eye. Then, clenching her fist, she quickly lowered her hand.

Rubbing the eyes could cause wrinkles. Yet one more thing to be grateful for, she decided. Thanks to good genes, she didn’t have that many wrinkles. Not yet. And the bit of gray in her hair still blended naturally with the dark blond, giving it a highlighted look. Her daily walk and her line of work helped keep her physically fit—her muscles were toned, and she could still wear a size ten petite dress.

Her daily walk…Charlotte took a deep breath, savoring the cool air, then let it out in a sigh full of longing. Oh, how she missed her early-morning walks. There was something really special about getting out when everything was still fresh.

Yet another change. Everything changes and nothing stays the same, she reminded herself. It had been five months since she’d begun working for Marian Hebert on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Unlike her former clients, the Dubuissons, who had been content with her showing up at nine, Marian wanted her at work by eight. At first she’d set her alarm clock an hour earlier each morning so she could still take her walk. She was not an early riser by nature, though. Getting up earlier had lasted only a week before she’d decided to content herself with walking in the evenings instead.

“Oh, well,” she murmured, glancing around for the newspaper. There was no use in worrying about any of it. The only thing to do was learn to roll with the punches.

Worrying about turning sixty wasn’t going to change the outcome. Whether she liked it or not, unless she died or the world came to an end, her birthday would come. And worrying about having to change her walking time wouldn’t change anything either, not if she wanted to keep her newest client.

Still searching for the newspaper, Charlotte stepped closer to the front of the porch. She spotted it on the second step from the bottom. The paper was enclosed in a clear plastic bag that still held small pockets of water from the rain. She bent down, picked it up, then shook off the excess moisture. Just as she slipped it out of the plastic wrap, she heard the click of the dead bolt on the front door of the other half of her double.

“Oh, no!” she whispered, glaring at the door. Thoughts of making a run for it flitted through her head. The last person she wanted to see and the last person she wanted to see her this early in the morning was Louis Thibodeaux.

She still couldn’t believe that she’d given in and rented out the other half of her double to him. After the last tenants she’d had, she’d decided against ever renting to anyone again. But Louis was different, and knowing his stay would only be temporary had been the deciding factor.

The house he’d owned Uptown had sold before he’d finished building his retirement home on Lake Maurepas. Once he’d finished his lake house, he would move out.

Charlotte eyed her own front door and calculated her chances. No way would she make it in time, not without breaking her neck on the slippery porch in the process. With a resigned sigh, she faced the door at the other end of the porch as it swung open.

Louis Thibodeaux was a stocky man with gray hair and a receding hairline. Though not pretty-boy handsome, he was an attractive man, in a rugged sort of way. And unlike most men his age, his belly was still nice and flat instead of hanging over his belt.

“Hey, there, Charlotte,” he said. “I thought I heard you out here.”

Great, she thought, wondering if her hair was sticking up all over the place and wishing she’d at least pulled on a pair of sweats instead of her old ratty housecoat.

In contrast, Louis had already showered, shaved, and dressed, and every gray hair on his perfectly shaped head was combed and in place.

Charlotte forced a smile and held up the newspaper. “Just getting the paper.” She stepped back up onto the porch. Noting that he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his usual khaki slacks and dress shirt, she tilted her head and frowned. “You off today?”

“Today and tomorrow.” He held up crossed fingers. “I’m just hoping that nothing major goes down to interfere.”

Charlotte suppressed a shudder. Louis was a New Orleans homicide detective, and to Louis, “major” meant murder and death.

“Since Judith is showing my replacement the ropes,” he continued, “I thought this would be a good time to take some vacation days.”

Charlotte frowned. “Your replacement? Already? But I thought you weren’t retiring until the end of the year.”

“I’m not, but the end of the year will be here before you know it.”

And so will my birthday. Charlotte immediately shied away from the depressing thought. “How is my niece, by the way?” Better to think about Judith than to think about turning sixty. “I haven’t seen or heard from her since last Sunday.”

“She’s okay.” He shrugged. “It’s been kinda rough on her, breaking in a new partner, but hey—she’s tough, and she’ll survive.”

Survive! Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that, but before she could question Louis about it, he switched subjects on her.

“I’m glad I caught you before I left,” he said. “I’ll be working out at the camp for the next couple of days, but I’ll have my cell phone on, just in case anything comes up. We finally got the roof on last week, so I’m ready to start on the inside. If everything goes as planned, I should be able to move by the end of next month.”

Charlotte nodded but gave him a sharp look. “What exactly did you mean by ‘survive’?”

His expression abruptly grew tight, and a warning cloud settled on his features. “I didn’t mean anything, Charlotte. It’s just an expression. The new guy will do just fine. Judith will do just fine,” he emphasized. “Besides, he comes highly recommended by the brass.”

The last was said with a slight edge in his voice, and that, along with Louis’ expression, could mean almost anything.

“Stop it, Charlotte. Get that look off your face and stop it right now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If there’s something wrong with Judith or this new partner of hers, I have a right to know, so you just stop it. This is my niece we’re talking about, a girl I helped raise. And you and I both know that a good partner can mean the difference between life and death for a police officer.”

“Judith will be just fine.” He separated and emphasized each word as if he were talking to a stubborn two-year-old. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve got things to do, and I’d like to get on the road before traffic backs up.”

Before Charlotte could protest, he stalked past her, stomped down the steps, and made a beeline for his car.

For long seconds, she stood glued to the spot, fuming, as she watched the detective drive off down the street. Something was going on, something he didn’t want to talk about. And just like a man, any time they didn’t want to talk about a subject, they either headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom or they simply left the premises.

Finally, with a frustrated shake of her head, she headed inside. But as she passed her desk, she eyed the phone. “I should give Judith a call and find out for myself about this new partner of hers.” She glanced up at the birdcage near the front window. “What do you think, Sweety Boy?” she asked. “Should I call her?”

The little parakeet cocked his head to one side, let out a chirp, then began prancing back and forth along the perch inside his cage, squawking out the only word he knew. “Crazy! Crazy!”

“Well, you’re no help. And that’s enough of that. Why can’t you say something nice, something like ‘good morning’ or even just ‘hello’?” For months she’d been trying to teach the silly parakeet to talk, but the one word that he had chosen to say wasn’t among the few phrases she’d repeated over and over.

Go figure, she thought as she eyed the phone again. Just about the time she’d made up her mind to dial her niece, the cuckoo clock on the wall over her desk signaled the half hour. Six-thirty.

Charlotte glared at the parakeet, then burst out laughing. “You’re right, Sweety. I would be ‘crazy’ to call this early.” Knowing her niece, she probably wasn’t even awake yet.

In the kitchen, armed with her first cup of coffee, Charlotte seated herself at the table. She removed the Lagniappe Arts and Entertainment insert that came with each Friday’s paper and set it aside to read later. Though she normally read the paper at the end of the day, she always took time to scan the headlines over her first cup of coffee.

Flattening out the rest of the paper, she began skimming the front page. When her gaze reached the bottom right-hand corner, she froze, her eyes riveted to the caption.

DUBUISSON MURDER TRIAL—JURY SELECTION TO BEGIN.

She’d known it was coming, but the shock of actually seeing it in bold print still stunned her. For long seconds, she stared at the paper, mesmerized. The five months that had passed since the scandalous Dubuisson murder evaporated like rising steam, and she blanked out everything but the horrific events behind the headline.

Like a video on fast-forward, the horrible memories unfolded in her mind in rapid succession. And she saw it all again, beginning with the day she’d first learned that someone in her former client’s household had been murdered and ending with her horrifying brush with death that had finally precipitated the arrest of the murderer.

Only recently had her nightmares eased. Only within the last month had she finally stopped reliving her own near-death experience because of her association with the Dubuissons.

Charlotte shivered. When it happened, she’d been lucky that the police kept her name out of the papers. This time, though, she wouldn’t be so lucky. First the jury selection, then the trial. And with the trial, the D.A. would subpoena her as a witness for the prosecution. Not only would her name be in the papers, but she’d have to relive it all again, all of it, blow by blow, the whole sordid, ugly affair.

“Wonderful,” she muttered, feeling as if the weight of the world had suddenly descended on her shoulders. “Just what I needed this morning.” Not only did she have her sixtieth birthday to look forward to, but now this, something else to dread.

It was the trill of the telephone that finally penetrated Charlotte’s morose brooding. With a frown, she shoved away from the table. An early phone call never boded well in her line of business, and usually meant trouble, a problem of some kind.

In the living room, Charlotte picked up the receiver. “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”

“Charlotte, this is Bitsy Duhe.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose in dismay. Why on earth was Bitsy Duhe calling her at this time of the morning? She’d just seen the old lady yesterday.

Usually she cleaned Bitsy’s house on Tuesdays, but this week, Bitsy had asked her to work an extra day, so Charlotte had cleaned her house again on Thursday, which was normally her day off. Bitsy’s granddaughter was coming into town for the weekend to attend a Tulane alumni class reunion, and she had wanted everything extra spiffy for her granddaughter’s visit.

“Have you seen today’s headlines?” Bitsy asked.

Charlotte almost groaned out loud. She should have guessed. All Bitsy wanted was to gossip. And this morning, of all mornings, Charlotte was in no mood to put up with her. But typically Bitsy, the old lady launched into a spiel without waiting for any response from Charlotte.

“I heard that Jonas Tipton is going to be the presiding judge at the trial,” she said. “How that man is still sitting on the bench is a miracle. Why he’s older than I am, and Margo Jones told me he’s almost senile. Why, I heard that—”

“Miss Bitsy!” Charlotte sharply interrupted. “You know I would love to talk to you, but the fact is, I can’t—not about this or anything else to do with the case. I’m under strict orders from the D.A. not to discuss it with anyone.”

Charlotte hesitated only a moment, then, “And my goodness, just look at the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late. I’ll have to call you back later, okay? You take care and enjoy that granddaughter of yours. Bye now.”

Without giving Bitsy a chance to reply, Charlotte deliberately hung up the receiver. Even as she prayed that the old lady wouldn’t call back, she immediately felt a twinge of guilt for her uncharitable attitude.

Bitsy was simply lonely, an elderly lady with too much time on her hands. But it hadn’t always been that way. Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans and the couple had led an active social life, even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, and all she had left was their son and two granddaughters.

Unfortunately, Bitsy’s son and one of the granddaughters lived in California, and the other granddaughter lived in New York. Bitsy, starved for human contact and companionship, had nothing better to do than to spend hours on the phone, calling around and collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.

When Charlotte returned to the kitchen, she paused by the table and glanced again at the headline. She’d stretched the truth a bit when she’d told Bitsy what the D.A. had said. He’d actually warned her against giving any press interviews about her association with the Dubuissons.

As if she would, she thought, deeply offended by just the thought. One of the first rules she insisted upon when she hired a new employee was complete confidentiality concerning her clients. Gossiping about clients was strictly forbidden and grounds for immediate dismissal. With Charlotte, it was a matter of principle, of pride, and just good business sense that her clientele trust her and her employees.

Charlotte’s gaze shifted to the article below the headline. Temptation, like forbidden fruit, beckoned. The D.A. had also cautioned her about letting anything she read or heard in the news influence her in any way. But surely it wouldn’t hurt just to read a few lines….

Curiosity killed the cat. Charlotte closed her eyes and groaned. Curiosity, along with disobedience, was also the ruin of Adam and Eve. Before she could change her mind, she snatched up the paper, marched to the pantry, and stuffed it into the trash can.

Besides, she thought as she pulled a box of raisin bran from the pantry shelf, her upcoming birthday was enough to be depressed about. She walked to the cabinet, set the box of cereal on the counter, then took milk and apple juice out of the refrigerator. Dredging up the whole horrible affair connected with the Dubuissons would only make matters worse.

After her bowl of cereal and glass of juice, Charlotte checked Sweety Boy’s supply of water and birdseed.

“My goodness, you’ve been a thirsty boy,” she told him as she removed the water trough. “And hungry,” she added, also removing the birdseed container.

Once both were replenished, she ran her forefinger over the little bird’s velvety head. “Pretty boy,” she crooned. “Say Sweety Boy’s a pretty boy.”

For an answer, the parakeet ducked her finger and sidled over to the narrow space between her wrist and the cage door. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she told him as she nudged him away from the door, then quickly eased her hand out of the cage. “I don’t have time to let you out this morning.” She quickly latched the door. “Tonight,” she promised. “I’ll let you out for a while tonight.”

Having taken care of the little parakeet, Charlotte rushed through her shower, then dressed. At her dressing table, she glared in the mirror at her hair. Just as she’d figured, it was sticking out all over her head, and she made a face at the image in the mirror.

Staring at her hair again reminded her of Louis Thibodeaux and what he’d said about Judith. As she switched on the curling iron, her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t so much what Louis had said as what he hadn’t said. From his tone, he’d given her the impression that he didn’t think much of his replacement, but that could mean any number of things.

She’d definitely call Judith, she decided, as she automatically began applying her makeup while waiting for the curling iron to heat. She’d definitely call her today.

Charlotte applied a touch of mascara to her lashes. Another call she needed to make was to the beauty shop. So write it down now, so you won’t forget.

Removing the pen and small notebook she always kept in her apron pocket, she quickly jotted down a reminder. Slipping the pen and notebook back inside the pocket, she glanced again at her reflection. For now, though, she’d just have to make do.

With a sigh, she began winding strands of her hair around the warm curling iron, and as she attempted to bring some kind of order to her messy hair, she began plotting how she would worm information out of Judith about her new partner. Like Louis, her niece could also be closemouthed and evasive when it suited her.

 

The short commute to work each morning was just one of the many advantages of living near the Garden District where most of her clients were located. Normally the drive to Marian Hebert’s house took less than ten minutes even with the usual bumper-to-bumper morning traffic on Magazine.

Charlotte was a bit ahead of schedule until she tried to turn onto Sixth Street; there, traffic was at a complete standstill. Craning her head, she could see swirling police lights about a half a block ahead.

She glanced in her rearview mirror, but already a line of vehicles had formed and she was blocked in. With a sigh of impatience, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Being prompt was another of her strict rules, but she still had plenty of time, she decided as she drummed a staccato rhythm with her fingers against the steering wheel.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the traffic began to slowly move once again. When she drove past the source of the blinking lights, her heart sank.

“And another one bites the dust,” she muttered, eying the crew of men who were clearing away the debris from a huge oak limb that had split off and fallen into the street.

Between the recent drought conditions in south Louisiana and the Formosan termite invasion, the huge oaks that had shaded the Garden District for almost a century didn’t stand a chance. Despite the city’s all-out effort to fight the destructive insects, a lot of damage had already been done, and at times, it seemed like a losing battle.

Last night had only been a small storm, and Charlotte shuddered to think what kind of damage a full-blown hurricane might cause. So far, New Orleans had lucked out, though, and contrary to dire predictions from the weather experts, the hurricanes that had formed since June had chosen other paths to wreak their destruction.

Minutes later, Charlotte pulled up alongside the curb in front of Marian’s house and parked. Though not as ostentatious as the Dubuissons’ home had been, Marian’s raised cottage type was just as grand in its own way. Like so many of the homes in the Garden District, it was over a century old and had been lovingly renovated as well as updated to accommodate all of the modern conveniences.

As typical of a raised cottage type, the original floor plan had been simple and consisted of four rooms, evenly arranged and separated by a wide center hall. Raised six to eight feet off the ground, the main living area was on the second level, with a staircase in front leading to the entrance.

Marian and her late husband had remodeled the home to include two large rooms across the back, one a modern kitchen-family room combination, and the other a home office. The bottom level had been turned into a master suite and a huge game room for their two sons.

From the back of her van, Charlotte removed her supply carrier. She let herself in through the front gate then climbed the steps to the porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.

“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”

Immediate concern marred Charlotte’s face. “Marian, my goodness, what’s wrong?”

Not exactly the calm or serene type anyway, Marian looked even more flustered than usual. She was still dressed in her gown and robe, her pale face was devoid of makeup, and her dark hair looked as if she’d spent a hard night tossing and turning.

Marian backed away from the door so Charlotte could enter. “What’s not wrong would be a better question,” she answered, wringing her hands. “It’s days like this I really miss Bill. At times, I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she added in a whisper.

Charlotte m. . .