but asked a question of her own. “How was the apartment hunting?”
“I found a couple of possibilities.”
Charlotte motioned toward Joyce’s coffee cup. “Is there any more of that left?”
“Oh, sure. Help yourself. I always make a full pot.”
“Help yourself”? In my own house, she’s telling me to help myself to my own coffee?
Before Charlotte said something that she would regret, she forced a tight-lipped smile and hurried to the kitchen. A few minutes later, armed with her own cup of coffee and her temper once again relegated to the simmering level, Charlotte settled in the chair opposite the sofa. For several minutes, she tried to relax and ignore Joyce and the television while she quietly sipped her coffee.
But trying to ignore Joyce and being able to do it were two different things. There was just no way she could stop thinking about the police detective casing out her house or the pawnshop incident. Regardless of what the ill-mannered shopkeeper had said, she simply couldn’t shake the feeling that Joyce had stolen something of hers and pawned it.
“We need to talk a minute,” she finally told Joyce.
Joyce glanced at Charlotte and shrugged. “So talk,” she said, turning her attention back to the television.
Charlotte glared at the other woman, and forced herself to silently count to ten. She tried once more. “I think you’ll want to give what I’ve got to say your full attention. Could you please turn off the TV?”
Joyce rolled her eyes. Then, with exaggerated gestures, she held out the remote and pressed the power switch. “Is that better? Satisfied now?”
Biting back the stinging retort that was on the tip of her tongue, Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, between gritted teeth, she said, “When I left for work yesterday morning, I notice a man sitting in a black SUV parked across the street. Well, he was there again today, so I decided to see what he was up to. Come to find out, he’s a police detective.”
Charlotte paused for a reaction from Joyce, but nothing in her expression gave Charlotte a clue as to what was going on in Joyce’s head. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why a police detective would be parked in front of my house?”
“No!” Joyce snapped, her tone defiant. “Why should I be?”
“You really don’t know?”
“No, Charlotte, I really don’t know,” she drawled mockingly, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Charlotte stiffened and saw red. “You’ve got that right,” she shot back. “For your information, he was here looking for you. He said it had to do with an ongoing investigation.”
Stone-faced, Joyce shook her head in denial. “That’s ridiculous,” she said evenly. “There’s no reason for the police to be looking for me. No reason at all.”
“And you don’t know a detective by the name of Aubrey Hamilton?”
Charlotte could have sworn that for just the briefest of moments, something akin to fear flashed in Joyce’s eyes, but then Joyce shook her head again and averted her gaze.
“No, I don’t.” Joyce stared at her hands as she picked her fingernails.
It was just a gut instinct, but Charlotte was certain that Joyce was lying through her pearly whites. For one thing, Joyce wouldn’t look her in the eye. But other than outright calling her a liar to her face, and with no way to prove she was lying, there was nothing Charlotte could do about it…at least not for now.
Charlotte stood. “How do you feel about gumbo for supper? I’ve got some frozen and it won’t take long to thaw it out.”
“If it tastes as good as what you brought me that time when I was staying at Louis’s place, then yum-yum. Is there anything that I can do to help?”
Charlotte was so shocked that it took a while for her to find her voice. That Joyce even remembered the incident—never mind acknowledging it—was totally unexpected. “Why, yes—yes, of course. You can cut up a salad while I put some rice on to cook.”
Charlotte waited until after they had eaten and were cleaning up the kitchen before bringing up the pawnshop incident. She had just put the last of the dirty dishes inside the dishwasher when, as casually as she could, she said, “One of the apartments that you’re considering must be in the French Quarter.”
Joyce was wiping off the table, but paused. “No, not really. I can’t afford any of those apartments.” She resumed wiping the table.
“That’s odd,” Charlotte said, still striving for a casual, nonconfrontational tone, “I could have sworn that I saw you this afternoon. It was right off St. Peter Street.”
Joyce laughed, but Charlotte could tell it was forced and as fake as a three-dollar bill.
Joyce shook her head. “Nope. Sorry, that wasn’t me. Must have been my double—you do know, they say that everyone has one. Besides, I’ve been right here since noon.”
Liar, Charlotte wanted to scream, but when she opened her mouth to confront Joyce, she made a split-second decision against confronting her and closed it. For one thing, she’d had a long day and she was tired—not really up to arguing or confronting anyone. Besides, at this point, even if she did confront her, and Joyce finally admitted she had been at the pawnshop, there was no way that Joyce was going to admit she’d stolen anything. Better to wait until she had some proof. And better to wait until she was rested up.
With a huge yawn that wasn’t faked, Charlotte said, “As soon as I fix the coffeepot, I think I’ll go to bed and read myself to sleep. Who knows, since I’m off tomorrow, I might even actually sleep late in the morning.” Charlotte didn’t expect a response, but she’d wanted to let Joyce know not to disturb her in the morning.
Joyce’s response was a shrug of indifference, and then she dropped the dishrag into the sink and headed for the living room.
Charlotte stared at the wadded-up, dirty dishrag. The least Joyce could have done was rinse it out and drape it across the edge of the sink to dry so that it wouldn’t sour overnight.
Using the tips of her forefinger and thumb, Charlotte gingerly picked up the dishrag and took it to the laundry room. Back in the kitchen, as Charlotte filled the coffeemaker with water, she heard the sound of the television. Rolling her eyes, she spooned coffee into the basket and set the timer.
Once in her bedroom, Charlotte closed the door, then stood staring at the doorknob for several minutes, her thoughts on the lies that Joyce had told her.
Charlotte hated being so suspicious of every little thing, and she hated not feeling safe in her own home, but over the years, she’d learned to trust her instincts. She’d also learned that it was foolish not to take precautions. The one thing that she didn’t want was to wake up in the middle of the night and find Joyce burgling her bedroom, or worse. At this instant, her instincts were screaming at her, Better to be safe than sorry. Just do it.
I didn’t lock the door last night, she silently argued.
But you
