mother, and over the years, she’d often been mistaken for Charlotte’s daughter rather than her niece. Though she was taller than Charlotte, both had the same honey-brown-colored hair and the same cornflower-blue eyes.
“Judith!” Charlotte cried out. “Hey, Judith, wait up! Over here!”
When Judith hesitated, turned, and searched the crowd, Charlotte slipped between the two metal police barricades and waved her arms. Ignoring the shouts of the uniformed officer, she made a beeline for her niece.
But the policeman was younger and faster than Charlotte. He caught her before she reached her niece.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said as he grabbed her by the upper arm and jerked her to a standstill.
“But that’s my niece,” she argued, trying to pull free of the officer’s bruising grip while gesturing wildly at Judith with her free hand. “I have to talk to her.”
“Hey, Billy,” Judith called out as she hurried toward them. “Take it easy. That’s my aunt you’re manhandling.”
Charlotte glared up at the young officer. “See, I told you she was my niece.” When she tried once again to wrench free from his grip, he released her.
As Charlotte rubbed the red spot on her arm, stains of scarlet appeared on the officer’s cheeks. Holding up both his hands in a defensive gesture, he shrugged and backed away. “Hey, Judith, how was I to know she was your aunt?” he said. “I was only doing my job”
Judith waved him away with a dismissive hand, then turned her attention to her aunt. “Aunt Charley, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Do you know that young man?”
Judith nodded. “That’s Billy Wilson. We’ve had a couple of dates.”
“Well, someone needs to teach him some manners.”
“Aunt Charley.” In an ominous tone, Judith drew out the pet name she’d always called her aunt, spacing the syllables evenly. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“The Dubuissons.” Charlotte gestured toward the old mansion. “I work for them on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I was on my way to work when, when—” Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed hard. A moment later she opened her eyes, blinking several times against the brightness. “Which one, Judith?” she whispered. “Which one of them was murdered?”
“Oh, Aunt Charley . . .” Judith slipped her arm around her aunt’s shoulder and squeezed gently in sympathy. Then, with a nudge, she guided her away from the crowd, toward the shade of a nearby oak that draped over the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you worked for the Dubuissons. But it was Jackson, Aunt Charley. Jackson Dubuisson was the one murdered.”
Though some of the tightness in Charlotte’s chest eased a bit, she still felt sick at heart for the Dubuisson women . . . Jeanne . . . Anna-Maria . . . And yes, even Clarice, despite the old woman’s rudeness and obstinacy. Losing a loved one or someone close was never easy under any circumstances, a fact she’d had to deal with personally more times than she cared to think about. But murder . . .
“According to the preliminary reports,” Judith continued, “he was murdered sometime near midnight or early morning. His wife, Jeanne, was the one who found him in the library.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Oh, poor, poor Jeanne. How awful for her.”
“Yes, I’m sure it must be a terrible thing—”
“Hey, Monroe, you coming or what?”
Both women turned to face the man Charlotte had seen with her niece in the car.
“That’s Lou—Louis Thibodeaux,” Judith told her aunt. “Lou is my new partner till he retires at the end of the year.”
Though Judith’s new partner was a stocky man with gray hair and a receding hairline, Charlotte noted that for an older man, he was somewhat attractive in a rugged sort of way. At least his belly didn’t hang over his belt like so many men her age, she thought.
“Go ahead, Lou,” Judith called out. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Louis nodded, and Judith turned her attention back to her aunt. “I need to get to work now. You gonna be okay?”
Charlotte shrugged. “It’s just such a shock.”
“Do you need me to walk you to your van?”
“No.” Charlotte firmly shook her head. “What I need is to see Jeanne Dubuisson, to talk to her.”
Judith frowned, her expression filled with regret. “Oh, Aunt Charley, I can’t let you do that, not yet. Go on home for now.”
“But you don’t understand. Jeanne has no one to—” Charlotte bit off the words spilling out of her mouth.
“What? No one to what? Aunt Charley.”
“Nothing.” Charlotte lowered her gaze. “Never mind,” she said, realizing that there was no way she could explain about Jeanne, no way to explain that she had no one to confide in or turn to in a crisis, no one except possibly her maid. No, she couldn’t explain, Charlotte decided, not without betraying the confidences that Jeanne had placed in her.
Charlotte tried another tack. “Surely you could bend the rules just this one time. I just need to talk to her for a moment, and I promise I won’t get in the way.”
“You know I can’t, Aunt Charley. Not even for you.”
One look at the strained expression on Judith’s face and remorse shot through Charlotte. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. It’s just that— that—” Charlotte shrugged, at a loss for words. How could she explain when she didn’t quite understand it herself?
“It’s just that you care about them,” Judith offered softly, gently.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes—yes I do.” She paused. “Maybe you could at least pass along a message for me. Would that be okay?”
Judith nodded. “I think that would be just fine.”
“Just tell Jeanne to call me if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all.”
Charlotte was used to staying busy. Since she had worked Saturday for Bitsy, she had expected to be off on Tuesday, her regular day to clean for the old lady. But she hadn’t expected to be off two days in a row, and she found herself at a loss as to what to do.
For one thing, the house was quiet . . . too quiet. And lonely. Not even Sweety Boy’s antics and chirps seemed to help.
There was plenty that needed doing, though, projects she’d been putting off due to lack of time ... recording and totaling the month’s receipts for tax purposes . . . taking inventory of her supplies . . . working on a bid for the Devillier job Cheré had told her about. And laundry, a large pile of dirty laundry that she’d had to ignore due to her unusually busy weekend, was still waiting for her beside her washing machine.
Charlotte
