father’s murderer is still out there,” she said. “Somewhere . . .”
Chapter Two
Not even the overhang of the lower gallery was protection against the humid heat of the afternoon sun. Charlotte wiped perspiration from her brow and upper lip, then resumed sweeping away the trail of leaves, grass, and dirt that littered the ten-foot-wide porch. But the one thing she couldn’t seem to wipe away or sweep from her thoughts was Jeanne’s unsettling statement.
My father murderer is still out there.
Even now, despite the heat and the sweat soaking the back of her blouse, Charlotte still felt a chill, the kind that went clear to the bone. Though she knew intellectually that it was possible a person could get away with murder, she didn’t like to think that it could really happen, at least not in her safe, secure world.
Before long, however, the oppressive heat of the afternoon began to take its toll, and a cool, cleansing shower and a large glass of iced tea were all that Charlotte could think about. She should have swept the gallery earlier, when it was cooler, instead of saving it for last.
“Almost done,” she muttered as she turned the corner leading to the side gallery.
The side gallery fronted two rooms of the bottom story of the house—the front parlor and the library. Three sets of double French doors opened out onto the gallery—two sets for the parlor and one set for the library. In the days before air-conditioning, the doors were thrown open to create a draft inside the old house.
Just outside the doors of the library was a white three-piece bistro set, each piece composed of an intricately designed pattern made of cast iron. Though the table and chairs were perfectly situated for an early-morning first cup of coffee, Charlotte knew for a fact that the set was mostly for decoration.
So why had one of the chairs been moved deeper into the shade of the gallery, closer to the French doors?
Charlotte stepped closer, and for several moments she stared at the lone chair sitting sideways. How strange, she thought.
At that moment, the phone inside the library rang, and Charlotte went very still. After only two rings, someone within the house must have picked up one of the extensions, because the phone suddenly was silent again.
Growing more intrigued by the minute, Charlotte couldn’t resist the temptation to try out the chair. Once seated, she found herself privy to a perfect view of the library inside through the panes of the French door. She could see in, but she noted that because of the position of the desk inside, if someone were sitting at it, that person wouldn’t be able to see her. Not only could a person sitting in the chair hear whatever was going on inside, but that person could also see what was happening there.
What if someone was sneaking around outside on the gallery specifically for that purpose?
“Yeah, right,” she muttered, then grimaced. She was doing it again, letting her sometimes overactive imagination get the best of her, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She’d always been a sucker for a good mystery and was a huge fan of the genre. Over the years, she’d learned that reading the whodunit novels was the perfect outlet for that imagination.
A sudden loud racket gave Charlotte a start, and she jerked her head around to glare in the direction of the sound.
A lawn mower.
It was just a lousy lawn mower from the house next door. And a noisy one at that.
Of course, she thought, lowering her gaze to the trail of dirt, leaves, and cut grass and feeling a bit foolish. Just like the neighbors and most of the other homeowners in the Garden District, the Dubuissons employed a gardener to maintain their lawn and gardens. The gardener came two days a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Since the trail of debris seemed to end in front of the chair, more than likely the gardener, not some fantasy spy, was the culprit. He’d probably simply needed a place to rest and cool off.
“Big bad mystery solved,” she muttered. “The end.”
Deciding that the heat was getting to her more than she had thought and that she’d wasted enough time indulging her silly imagination, she stood and firmly repositioned the chair beneath the table, then hurriedly swept away the remaining debris.
Once back inside the house, Charlotte checked her cleaning supplies to make sure she had repacked everything. Since she had already loaded her vacuum into the van, all that remained was finding Jeanne so she could let her know she had finished.
Charlotte found her seated at a small secretary in the back parlor. Her brow creased in concentration, Jeanne was reading a paper on top of a stack of what appeared to be legal documents. Just as Charlotte stepped farther into the room, the phone on the desk rang. Charlotte didn’t like to eavesdrop on her clients, but at times, doing so was unavoidable.
From Jeanne’s side of the conversation, she learned that the caller was Jackson.
“But Jackson, this makes two nights in a row you’ve had to work late, and tonight is the Zoo To Do festivities. I thought we were going.”
Even from where Charlotte stood, it was hard to miss Jeanne’s frown of disapproval.
“Yes . . . yes . . . of course I understand,” Jeanne said. “I always do, whether I want to or not, don’t I?”
Sarcasm? From Jeanne? How totally out of character, thought Charlotte.
“Of course not,” Jeanne continued in a clipped tone. “You know I won’t go without you, and yes, I’ll leave the gate unlocked. . . again, but don’t expect me to keep your supper warm.”
After Jeanne hung up the receiver, Charlotte waited several moments before making her presence known. She’d seen Jeanne upset before, seen her hurt, even angry, but she’d never known her to be snide or bitchy.
Finally, Charlotte cleared her throat.
Jeanne glanced up. “Oh, Charlotte, sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Come on in.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m finished.” Charlotte walked over to the desk.
“Oh! Yes, of course. Just a second.” Jeanne turned and riffled through another stack of papers on the desk. “I know I put your check here . . . somewhere . . .” She stopped and pursed her lips in thought. Suddenly, she struck her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Now I remember. I put it away in the safe when I made out the bills.” She stood. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
While waiting for Jeanne’s return, Charlotte took a quick inventory of the room, checking for anything she might have missed while cleaning. Satisfied that all was in order, she glanced down at the stack of papers Jeanne had been concentrating on. The one on top was a mortgage of some type. Curious, Charlotte leaned closer. When she saw that it was a mortgage on a piece of property in a place called Gould, Colorado, and was made out to Jackson, she frowned.
Neither Jackson nor Jeanne skied, and as far as she knew, Jackson didn’t go in for hunting. So why would he own property in Colorado? she wondered.
She supposed that Jackson and Jeanne could have decided to take up skiing, but she didn’t recognize the town as being near any of the major resorts. More than likely, the property
