Maid For Murder. Barbara Colley
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her watch. “Oh, shoot, I’m already late. Got to run.” She laughed, and with a small flutter of her fingers, she waved as she hurried past Charlotte. “I’m meeting Laura for breakfast; then it’s shop till we drop. Oh, and by the way,” she called out, “I love your new hairstyle.”
Charlotte reached up self-consciously and smoothed back a strand of hair as she watched Anna-Maria skip down the front steps and disappear around the side of the house toward the driveway. Charlotte usually preferred a shorter, no-nonsense style, but it had been a while since she’d had time to get a haircut, and her hair had grown out longer than she normally wore it. Still, if Anna-Maria liked it a bit longer . . . maybe . . .
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. She wasn’t some silly schoolgirl who had all the time in the world to fool with fixing her hair. Shorter hair was much more practical. Besides, she should just be thankful that she didn’t have to bother with getting it colored as well as cut. She considered herself fortunate indeed that what little gray she had still blended with the honey-brown color.
Within moments, Charlotte heard the roar of a car engine come to life. When she turned back toward the door, Jeanne Dubuisson, dressed in a long silk robe and matching slippers, was standing in the doorway.
Unlike Anna-Maria, Jeanne’s eyes were blue. Otherwise, in looks, she was simply an older version of her daughter. But in temperament, whereas Anna-Maria was still outgoing and passionate about life, Jeanne possessed a quiet, ageless sophistication that could only be acquired with maturity and time.
“Good morning,” she said to Charlotte, sparing her a brief glance and polite smile. At that moment, her daughter’s bright red Bimmer Roadster shot out of the driveway and into the street. Jeanne focused a hungry gaze on the retreating sports car. “She thinks I don’t know that she’s playing hooky, and I guess I should be upset with her. It’s just that I miss her so when she’s away,” she said, her soft voice tinged with sadness. “I worry about her.”
Charlotte nodded, fully understanding the emotions Jeanne was experiencing. “It’s hard to let go,” Charlotte told her gently. “It’s been a while, but I remember well those first two years Hank went off to college. It’s almost like a part of you is missing.”
The sports car disappeared around the corner, and with a deep sigh, Jeanne turned her attention back to Charlotte. “And how is that son of yours these days? Is he still after you to retire?”
Charlotte grimaced. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard of? My goodness, I’m only fifty-nine. The way he carries on sometimes, you’d think I was a ninety-year-old invalid.”
Jeanne patted Charlotte’s arm. “You hang in there, and don’t you dare let him talk you into something you’re not ready for. Just because he’s a doctor doesn’t mean he knows everything. Besides, what on earth would I do without you?” Jeanne stood aside and motioned for Charlotte to enter the foyer.
The grand foyer of the old home was a room unto itself, and unlike the mere sixteen-foot ceilings of the other rooms in the house, the foyer soared upward the full two stories. Placed along the walls were several gilded lyre-back chairs and an Empire chaise longue upholstered in red brocade with gold trim. An antique rug, worn thin from decades of wear and all the more valuable because of its condition, covered the wooden floor.
“Today why don’t you start upstairs in Mother’s room while I serve her breakfast,” Jeanne told Charlotte as she pulled the door shut. “She’s been so grumpy lately that I thought I would serve it out on the upper gallery so she could get some fresh air and a little sunshine.”
Charlotte truly admired Jeanne as well as sympathized with her situation. Jeanne’s mother, Clarice St. Martin, had suffered a debilitating stroke just before Charlotte had begun working for the Dubuissons. Clarice could have well afforded the best nurses and round-the-clock care that money could buy, and her condition had somewhat improved over time, but Jeanne had insisted that her mother move in with her so that she could personally care for her.
Charlotte could understand why Jeanne, or any daughter, for that matter, would want to ensure that her mother had the best of care. Even so, the whole situation still seemed a bit strange, especially given their financial means, and she couldn’t help wondering if Jeanne had some kind of martyr complex.
“I already have Mother’s tray ready in the kitchen,” Jeanne said. “I won’t be but a moment.” She walked past Charlotte toward the entrance to the formal dining room that led back to the kitchen.
“Do you need some help with the tray?” Charlotte called after her.
“My goodness, no,” Jeanne answered. “Besides, you’ve already got enough to carry.”
Within moments, Jeanne reappeared with a large wicker tray. On the tray were several covered dishes, but it was the pink rose in a cut-crystal vase that caught Charlotte’s eye.
“I see you’ve already been out to the garden this morning,” she said as she followed Jeanne up the sweeping stairway. Though Charlotte knew that Jeanne hired out most of the yard work, one of the few self-indulgent activities she allowed herself was her rose garden.
“Don’t I wish I could get out in the mornings,” Jeanne answered, her tone wistful. “I really love gardening, and truly the best time is early mornings, before the dew evaporates and before it gets too hot. But lately Mother has taken to waking up so early, and what with Jackson working later, I’ve had to switch working in the garden to the evenings instead.”
The stairway opened to a central hall on the second-story level, a hall similar to the foyer on the first level and wide enough for a claw-foot settee and a pair of pillar-and-scroll mahogany tables. Connected to the central hall were four large bedroom suites, each suite containing its own private bath.
Clarice’s bedroom was the closest to the stairs. The old lady was still in bed, her television tuned to QVC, a popular shopping channel. She was dressed in her nightgown, just one of the many soft flannel granny-type gowns that she preferred to sleep in and lounge around in.
“Mother, look who’s here.” Jeanne set the tray down on the foot of the bed.
Totally ignoring Charlotte, the old lady pointed to the television screen. “Quick, Jeanne, look at that.”
Jeanne didn’t bother looking, but Charlotte glanced at the screen. A sparkling ruby-and-diamond necklace was being displayed.
“Wouldn’t that look stunning on Anna-Maria? And rubies are her birthstone.”
With an impatient shake of her head, Jeanne walked around to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers. “I don’t know why you insist on watching those shows. Now, come along. I have a special treat for you today.”
Though Clarice allowed Jeanne to help her to the side of the bed, her expression grew hard and resentful. “How else is an old crippled woman supposed to shop?”
While Jeanne was busy assisting Clarice into a terry robe, Charlotte opened the French doors leading out onto the upper gallery.
“Besides,” Clarice continued, “with July only a couple of months away, I don’t have that long to find her a birthday present.”
Outside on the gallery, Charlotte quickly wiped the dust off the top of a small glass-topped wicker table. But even from outside, Charlotte could hear Jeanne’s exasperated sigh.
“Mother, I’ve told you that anytime you want to shop, all you have to do is agree to a wheelchair and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
When Charlotte returned for the breakfast tray, Clarice’s lower lip was protruding into a pout. “I refuse to be seen in one of those things,” she said. “I’m not that crippled.”
Charlotte picked up the wicker tray and took it out to the table.
“Come along, then,” Charlotte heard Jeanne tell Clarice. “It’s such a beautiful day, I thought we could have breakfast out on the gallery.”