was a dash, and after the dash, Joyce had written, bughouse bluebird.
“What the devil does that mean?” Charlotte murmured. “That can’t be right.” But no matter which way she turned her head, or how much she squinted her eyes, she still came up with the same words. But there was more—yet another address and another dash, then the word daisy.
For long minutes, Charlotte continued staring at the writing. What could it mean? she wondered. And what on earth was Joyce up to now?
There was one thing for sure—just standing there and staring at the writing wasn’t going to give her any answers. On the contrary, the note etched into the tabletop, along with the missing watch, and Joyce’s lies about being at the pawnshop, just fueled more questions.
Still thinking about her dilemma, and still hoping to find her father’s watch, Charlotte checked the last hiding place, a box full of more silver, which was shoved under the bed.
She knelt beside the bed, reached beneath it, and pulled out the small box. One look inside the velvet bag in the box, and disappointment, along with a sense of loss, filled her. The watch wasn’t there. She had been keeping the watch to give to Hank at the birth of his first child, and now it was gone, probably forever….
After swallowing the lump lodged in her throat, Charlotte took a deep breath and sighed. Sitting there, feeling sorry for herself, wasn’t doing anyone any good. What she needed was to find out what was going on.
She dropped the bag back inside the box, replaced the lid on the box, and then she pushed it back beneath the bed. She dusted off her hands. Yep, it was high time she did some checking up on Ms. Joyce Thibodeaux. Past time, a little voice whispered in her head.
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlotte grumbled, grabbing the edge of the bed for support. But as Charlotte got to her feet, a wave of weakness washed over her. She grabbed hold of the bedpost to steady herself. After a bit, she felt somewhat better. Even so, the incident was a stark reminder that in her haste to find the watch, she’d completely forgotten about breakfast.
As a diabetic, Charlotte knew she needed to eat regular balanced meals, and she also knew that stress wasn’t good for her.
“Oh, well,” she muttered, the two small words heavy with sarcasm as she walked carefully out of the room and headed for the kitchen. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do about the present stress in her life, but she could do something about eating.
In the kitchen, Charlotte fixed herself a bowl of oatmeal and a piece of toast. She was almost finished eating when out of nowhere an image of Aubrey Hamilton popped into her head. Her expression stilled and grew serious. She’d wondered how to go about checking up on Joyce, and now she knew. At this point in time, who better to ask than a police detective?
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