Maid For Murder. Barbara Colley
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gossip.
Tuesday, Charlotte told her conscience as she quickly glanced around, seeking the best avenue of escape. I promise I’ll be more charitable on Tuesday, when I clean her house, but please, just not tonight.
For an elderly lady in her eighties, Bitsy was fast, though, and before Charlotte had taken two steps, Bitsy grabbed hold of her arm.
“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”
As usual, Bitsy’s purple-gray hair was pulled straight back, away from her face, and fashioned into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided to Charlotte that by pulling her hair back, she could smooth out the wrinkles in her forehead. And as usual, Bitsy wore one of her numerous midcalf flowered dresses.
Reminding herself that Bitsy was a client, Charlotte pasted a smile on her face. But before she could return the old lady’s greeting, Bitsy was chattering away, nonstop. With Bitsy, one never carried on a conversation. One simply listened.
“I meant to call you today,” the old lady told her, “but what with my doctor’s appointment and grocery shopping, I never got around to it. I was wondering if you could possibly come in tomorrow to clean instead of next Tuesday.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to tell the old lady that, regretfully, she had already made plans, but Bitsy kept right on talking.
“Now, Charlotte, dear, I realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and of course I would pay you extra” She took a deep breath and smiled proudly. “You see, my granddaughter called this morning, and she’s coming for a visit—you know, she’s the one who lives in New York. And she’s flying in tomorrow evening. I really want everything to be nice and tidy for her visit, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
Again Charlotte opened her mouth to tell Bitsy she couldn’t come, but one look at the eager anticipation on the old lady’s face, along with the glow of excitement in her faded blue eyes, and she found she couldn’t do it.
“What time would you like for me to be there?” she said instead.
“Oh, my, I really hate to ask this of you, but could you possibly be there at seven instead of eight?”
Charlotte groaned inwardly but nodded her agreement.
“Wonderful!” Bitsy gushed. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you must let me buy you a drink.”
Charlotte frowned. “Buy? But I thought—”
“Yes, dear.” Bitsy snickered. “The drinks are included in the price of the ticket. I was just making a little joke.” Bitsy elbowed Charlotte. “Had you going for a second, though, didn’t I? My goodness, you’ve got to learn to lighten up or before you know it, you’ll turn into a sour old prune like me.” The old lady giggled, and Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
The last thing Charlotte wanted was to spend more time with Bitsy. What she wanted was to go home. But Bitsy latched on, and Charlotte found herself having a drink with the old lady, after all, as well as enduring another half hour of her endless chatter.
For a while, she was able to ignore most of what Bitsy said as the old lady pointed out first one person, then another one, and proceeded to regale Charlotte with the latest rumors circulating about the people she’d singled out.
Then, suddenly, Bitsy threw out a name, and all of Charlotte’s senses went on alert.
“Can you believe the nerve of that Jackson Dubuisson? Just look at them.” Bitsy shook her head. “And her a married woman. Even more scandalous, she’s his partner’s wife.” As if realizing she finally had Charlotte’s full attention, she nudged her and pointed. “Over there, just on this side of the fountain. I tell you, it’s one thing to have an affair, but to flaunt it in front of the whole city—well, I never!”
Charlotte followed Bitsy’s finger. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she spotted the couple. Just as Bitsy had said, Jackson Dubuisson was on the dance floor. Cuddled against him like a satisfied cat who had just found a bowl of cream was Sydney Marriott.
Charlotte had once worked for Sydney and knew that, in fact, Bitsy was right. Not only was Sydney a married woman, but she was married to Tony Marriott, Jackson’s law partner.
He’d lied, Charlotte thought. He’d outright lied to Jeanne about working late. While Jeanne was home, tending to her invalid mother, thinking that her husband was working, Jackson was out having a high old time.
Snippets of Jeanne’s side of the phone conversation when she’d talked to Jackson earlier began coming back to Charlotte, and she frowned. Had Jeanne suspected that Jackson was lying to her about working late? Did she suspect that he was having an affair? Even as socially insulated as she’d become, someone who was as prominent as Jeanne wasn’t totally cut off from the old-girl network. Someone along the way would have let it slip about Jackson.
Yes, Charlotte decided. Jeanne surely had to know. And if she knew, it would go a long way in explaining why she’d been so uncharacteristically sarcastic and short with him over the phone.
Suddenly, Charlotte recalled Clarice’s words from earlier that morning.... he’s a no good scoundrel . . . Maybe Clarice wasn’t quite as senile as Jeanne thought, after all.
“Oh, poor Jeanne,” Charlotte murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the couple. They were dancing so close that they seemed to blend into one; it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Humph!” Bitsy scoffed. “Poor Jeanne my foot. You better feel sorry for Sydney. Here comes that husband of hers, and he looks like he could chew nails. I know I wouldn’t want to cross him.”
Sure enough, Tony Marriott was headed straight for the dancing couple, and the murderous look on his face was enough to give Charlotte the cold shivers.
Chapter Three
For once, Charlotte had to agree with Bitsy. Even if Tony Marriott’s swarthy looks hadn’t reminded her of every cliché she’d ever associated with a mafia hit man, his reputation alone would have been enough for Charlotte to steer clear of him.
Charlotte’s nephew, Daniel, had once worked as an assistant D.A. before going into private practice. From listening to Daniel talk, Charlotte knew that Tony specialized in representing clients no one else would touch, mostly big-time drug dealers. And more often than not, he always won in court and was paid well for his services.
Bitsy tugged on Charlotte’s arm. “Let’s get closer. I can’t hear what they’re saying from here.”
Charlotte firmly removed her arm from Bitsy’s grasp. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Evidently, neither did the people dancing near Sydney and the two men. All around the men, couples had stopped dancing and were backing away.
Bitsy craned her head. “Oh, Lordy, me. Do you think they’re gonna fight?”
Charlotte abhorred violence in any form, and the eager anticipation in Bitsy’s voice was more than she could stomach.
“Shame on you,” Charlotte told the old lady. “Of course they’re not going to fight.” At least she hoped not. But if she had to bet on which man would win in a fight, she’d lay odds on Tony. No contest. Jackson was the taller of the two men by several inches, but Tony was more muscular looking and probably outweighed Jackson by at least thirty pounds. And from all accounts, Tony was a lot meaner than Jackson and fought dirty, at least in the courtroom.
Even as the music played on, muting the heated conversation between the two men, Charlotte could feel the tension emanating from them like the vibrations from the strings of a too tightly strung violin.
But the drama was short-lived. Tony’s verbal attack abruptly ended when he jerked his wife out of Jackson’s arms. Pulling her and half-dragging her along behind him, he stalked off through the crowd. Charlotte followed the couple’s exit until they disappeared in the crowd. When she looked back to see Jackson’s