SPRING CLEANING
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked.
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 there’s a dead man in-in the closet.”
A dead man…dead… Charlotte’s stomach turned queasy. “Which room?”
“The master bedroom,” Janet whispered. “He’s in the walk-in closet.”
Charlotte knew what she had to do. Whether she wanted to or not—and she definitely did not want to—she was going to have to check it out for herself.
The walk-in closet was open. A wave of apprehension swept through Charlotte as she edged nearer to the opening. Any minute she expected to see a hand or foot or some evidence of a body. But there was nothing yet.
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-slumped sideways against the wall…
Books by Barbara Colley
MAID FOR MURDER
DEATH TIDIES UP
POLISHED OFF
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Death Tidies Up
BARBARA COLLEY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
To my mother, Doris Logan,
who has always believed in me and my dreams.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks and appreciation to all who so generously gave me information and advice while I was writing this book: April Colley, my daughter; Lally Brennan and Gerald Aviles at Commander’s Palace; John Mcgill and Pamela Arceneaux with the Williams Research Center in New Orleans; Mary Lou Christovich; Cheryl Harrington and her parakeet, Jazz; and my good friends and fellow writers Rexanne Becnel, Jessica Ferguson, and Marie Goodwin.
Last, but never least, my thanks to Evan Marshall, my agent, and John Scognamiglio, my editor. Their support and inspiration have been invaluable.
Any mistakes made or liberties taken in the name of fiction are solely my own.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
Chapter One
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
