Free Dusted to Death by Barbara Colley Page B

than the last time that she’d butted heads with him because of a murder.
    When he stopped in front of her, he glared down at her and gave her a nasty grin. “Well, well, well, we meet again, Ms. LaRue. Why am I not surprised to find you at the scene of yet another murder? Like I’ve said before, seems to me that you have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    The words he used were the exact same words he’d said the last time they’d met. So, if he knew that he’d said the same thing before, why repeat it? Never mind that he was right. But just like that other time, this time wasn’t her fault either.
    “Jerk,” she muttered without moving her lips.
    “What was that?” he retorted, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What did you just say?”
    Mortified that she’d spoken the word out loud, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I said work . I’m working here.”
    Liar, liar, pants on fire .
    Her cheeks burned from the telltale heat of the lie that she’d just told. She could always hope that he wouldn’t notice or maybe he’d chalk it up to the hot flashes of an aging woman.
    With a grimace, Charlotte waved her hand in front of her face, as if fanning herself. “My goodness, is it hot in here or is it just me?”
    Wrong thing to do and say. From the amused look on the detective’s face, he wasn’t buying her act. But so what? Even if he knew that she was lying, knew that she’d just called him a jerk, what was he going to do, arrest her for calling him names? Not likely. After all, he had bigger fish to fry than her; namely, he had a murderer to catch.
    From now on, keep your mouth shut. Only speak when spoken to. Only answer his questions. Nothing else .
    Having dealt with the detective before, she’d known better than to antagonize him. She also knew that she should listen to her inner voice of caution and keep her sarcastic comments to herself. Never mind that the irritating detective had a way about him of getting on her very last nerve.
    Gavin Brown was still staring a hole through her as if trying to decide what to say next. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “I understand that you were the one who found the body.” When Charlotte nodded, he crooked his forefinger. “Come with me.”
    Charlotte stood and, dragging her feet with dread, followed the detective back to the kitchen.
    He motioned at a chair near the breakfast table. “Have a seat.” While she seated herself, he removed a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “Now—tell me again what you’re doing here.”
    “Cleaning,” Charlotte told him. “Mrs. Bitsy Duhè, the owner of the house, is one of my regular clients. When she was approached by the production company about them using her house for the movie, Bitsy asked them to hire me to watch over her stuff while they shot the movie scenes.”
    “Spell her name for me.”
    Charlotte slowly spelled out Bitsy’s name while the detective wrote in his notebook. “You might recall that Mrs. Duhè’s husband was once mayor before he passed away,” she offered.
    Gavin Brown gave her a blank look. “Mayor?”
    “You know—the mayor of New Orleans.”
    The detective shook his head. “Must have been before my time.” As if dismissing the subject as unimportant, he said, “So, where is Mrs. Duhè right now?” he asked.
    “Mrs. Duhè is staying at the Monteleone in the Quarter.”
    Charlotte suddenly groaned. “Oh, no.” Only at that moment did it register that someone would have to call Bitsy and let her know what had happened. Probably me, she thought, unless Bitsy saw it on the news before she could make that call. Dear Lord in heaven, Bitsy would have a conniption.
    “‘Oh, no’ what?” the detective retorted.
    “Someone needs to call Mrs. Duhè right away, before she hears it on the noonday news. She’s an elderly lady,” Charlotte hastened to explain, “and it would really upset her to hear it like that. Would it