Free Maid for Murder by Barbara Colley Page B

tongue to keep from pointing out that about a hundred other people witnessed the altercation, too.
    “So how was your granddaughter’s visit,” Charlotte asked in hopes of changing the subject.
    “Oh, it was fine, but listen, Charlotte, I can’t talk anymore right now. I think I’d better go ahead and make that call to the police. ‘Bye now.”
    Before Charlotte had time to say anything, she heard the click on the other end of the phone line that indicated that Bitsy had hung up the receiver.
     
    Charlotte took her walk, but it was just after the mechanical bird in the clock had finished singing the last of six cuckoos on Tuesday evening when the call from Jeanne finally came.

Chapter seven

    “O h, Jeanne, I’m so glad you called, and I’m so very sorry about Jackson.”
    “Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.”
    Though Charlotte wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected Jeanne to sound like, a puzzled frown crossed her face when she heard the calm, matter-of-fact tone of the younger woman’s voice.
    “Are you okay?” Charlotte asked her.
    “I think the standard answer is that I’m doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
    Charlotte’s frown deepened. Something wasn’t right here, she thought. Was it possible that Jeanne might still be in shock? After all, what woman wouldn’t be after finding her husband murdered? And different people reacted to traumatic events in different ways.
    Then another thought occurred to her. Maybe Jeanne had been given something, some type of medication, to keep her calm.
    “The reason I’m calling,” Jeanne continued, “is to ask a favor. The police have finally finished gathering their evidence—thank God, they’re finally gone. But they’ve left a mess, and I don’t think I can—I just can’t—”
    The break in her voice, followed by the ensuing silence, was telling, and Charlotte found that she was relieved to know that Jeanne wasn’t quite as cool or calm as she had first seemed. Surely, a certain amount of grief and emotion had to be healthier than keeping everything bottled up inside.
    “I can come right over and clean it up for you if you need me to?” Charlotte offered.
    A sigh of relief whispered through the telephone line, followed by a simple “Thank you.”
    “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
    “Twenty minutes will be fine, but I have to warn you, there are reporters all over the place. Maybe it would be best if you came in the back way.”
     
    Charlotte spotted the reporters camped in front of the house the minute she turned onto Jackson Avenue. The way they were standing around, clustered in small groups, reminded her of paradegoers during Mardi Gras, the kind who always arrived early so they could stake claims on the most advantageous spots to watch the parades.
    Deciding the best bet was to park on the next block, she kept driving. “Bunch of vultures,” she muttered as she drove past them. It was bad enough that the Dubuisson women had to cope with such a tragic loss, but to have to endure being held prisoners in their own home by the news media was the pits. Just the sight of the reporters made her angry enough to chew nails.
    Still seething, Charlotte found a parking spot on Philip Street and grabbed her supplies. Ever wary of the reporters, she hurried down the street to the back entrance gate of the Dubuisson mansion.
    The moment she pressed the buzzer on the gate, it clicked open, so she figured that Jeanne must have been watching for her from the kitchen window.
    Looking dry-eyed and stoic, Jeanne was standing at the back door when Charlotte crossed the deck. In contrast to her expression, for the first time that Charlotte could remember in the five years she’d worked for the Dubuissons, Jeanne looked almost rumpled. Her makeup was sparse and blotchy, and though the casual olive slacks and ivory blouse she wore weren’t exactly wrinkled, the elegant, polished look that Charlotte had grown used