Free Maid for Murder by Barbara Colley Page A

her regular day to clean for the old lady. But she hadn’t expected to be off two days in a row, and she found herself at a loss as to what to do.
    For one thing, the house was quiet . . . too quiet. And lonely. Not even Sweety Boy’s antics and chirps seemed to help.
    There was plenty that needed doing, though, projects she’d been putting off due to lack of time . . . recording and totaling the month’s receipts for tax purposes . . . taking inventory of her supplies . . . working on a bid for the Devillier job Cheré had told her about. And laundry, a large pile of dirty laundry that she’d had to ignore due to her unusually busy weekend, was still waiting for her beside her washing machine.
    Charlotte tried to occupy both her time and her mind both days. Her daily thirty-minute walk helped somewhat, but concentration on anything for very long proved to be impossible. Her thoughts kept returning to the Dubuisson women. All she could think about was what Jeanne, Anna-Maria, and Clarice must be going through, how they were coping, and what, if anything, she could do to help ease their suffering.
    But guilt plagued her, too, guilt for being so relieved that Jackson had been the victim instead of one of the women. And she kept remembering the last time she had seen Jackson alive. In her mind’s eye, she could still picture him dancing with Sydney Marriott on Friday night at the Zoo To Do, then, later, arguing with Sydney’s husband, Tony.
    And during those two days, as she waited, she kept hoping that Jeanne would call, yet dreading it at the same time.
    By Tuesday afternoon, her nerves were stretched to the limit. Each time the phone rang, she felt a fresh wave of apprehension sweep through her.
    Deciding that she’d just about had all she could stand and that taking yet a second walk might relieve some of the tension, Charlotte was lacing up her tennis shoes when the phone rang.
    Once again, hoping the caller was Jeanne, she rushed to the phone and snatched up the receiver.
    “Maid-for-a-Day, Charlotte speaking.”
    “Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re home.”
    Bitsy. It was only Bitsy Duhe, and Charlotte almost groaned out loud with frustration.
    “Don’t you work for the Dubuissons?” the old lady asked.
    Bitsy knew good and well that she worked for the Dubuissons, but Charlotte’s vast experience in dealing with the old lady had taught her a few tricks about handling her. “Now, Miss Bitsy, you know I don’t talk about my clients.”
    “Oh, Charlotte, don’t be silly. Of course you talk about your clients. Why just Saturday you and I were discussing the Dubuissons.”
    Bitsy paused dramatically, and Charlotte rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. The temptation to point out that Bitsy had done all the discussing about the Dubuissons was strong. She was also tempted to point out that except for a couple of questions about Brian O’Connor, who wasn’t a client, she’d simply listened. But Bitsy didn’t give her the opportunity.
    “And speaking of the Dubuissons,” she continued, “that’s the reason I’m calling. Did you hear about Jackson? It’s all over the news and made the front page of the Picayune.”
    Charlotte closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, ma’am, I read the paper this morning.”
    “Well, my goodness, Charlotte, give me the scoop. I figured if anybody knew anything, it would be you.”
    Charlotte kept quiet on purpose and didn’t answer. If she knew Bitsy, whether she answered or not, the old lady would keep right on talking, anyway. And she wasn’t disappointed.
    “The paper said a burglar broke in and killed him,” Bitsy continued. “But I’d be willing to bet, when all’s said and done, Tony Marriott was the one who did it, especially after that little show he put on Friday night. I’ve been thinking about calling the police myself—and you should think about it, too. After all, we were both eyewitnesses to that fight.”
    Charlotte shook her head and had to bite her