Maid For Murder - Barbara Colley A Charlotte LaRue Mystery

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His presence made her yearning for a grandchild even worse.

      Then, on Sunday, it had been her turn to host her family’s weekly lunch after church, a tradition she and her sister had started when their children were young. It still amazed her that with their busy lives, her niece, her nephew, and Hank still adhered to the tradition.

      She had planned to keep her promise to Nadia and talk to Daniel about Ricco’s situation after lunch. But Daniel had called early that morning to let her know he wouldn’t be able to join them due to a nasty stomach virus.

      The poor thing had sounded so awful over the phone that Charlotte didn’t have the heart to bring up business, but she made a mental note to remember to call him in a day or two, when he was feeling better.

      When Charlotte returned after her walk, she rushed through her shower and breakfast. Once she made sure Sweety Boy had plenty of water and birdseed to last the day, she was finally able to leave.

      Traffic for a Monday morning on Magazine was surprisingly light. Charlotte figured that, unlike on Friday, today she’d arrive at the Dubuissons’ right on time.

      But Jackson Avenue was a different story. “What on earth?” she muttered, craning her head first one way, then another, to see around the line of vehicles that had slowed to a crawl ahead of her. Probably an accident, she figured when she finally spotted the swirling lights of police cars up ahead.

      Charlotte began to have her doubts the closer she came to the swirling lights. She could see an ambulance and several police cars parked in the street. But other than the emergency vehicles, there were no signs of wrecked vehicles. So what was the problem?

      She was still two cars away when she suddenly realized that an area had been cordoned off directly in front of the Dubuisson house. A policeman was directing traffic to a side street.

      Warning spasms of alarm erupted within her, and her first thoughts were of Clarice. Was it possible that the old woman had suffered another stroke?

      When the car in front of Charlotte turned off to the side street that the officer was pointing toward, Charlotte was finally able to drive her van closer. She rolled down her window, stopped, then signaled that she wanted to talk to the officer. At first, he resisted and continued motioning for her to move along. But Charlotte could be stubborn, too, and she refused to move, finally forcing the man to walk over to her van.

      “Ma’am, you have to keep moving.”

      “I want to know what’s happened.”

      He firmly shook his head. “This is police business. You have to keep moving,” he repeated.

      “But Officer, I work for the Dubuissons.” She pointed to the house. “Please, can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

      The obstinate man shook his head again. “All I can tell you is there’s been a break-in and a murder.”

      Charlotte gasped as the meaning of the officer’s words sank in. A break-in and a murder? At the Dubuissons’?

      Icy fear twisted around her heart as the faces of Jeanne, Clarice, Anna-Maria, and Jackson flashed through her mind.

      Oh, dear Lord, which one? she wondered. Which one of them had been murdered?

      Chapter Six

      “Who-who wa-was murdered?” Charlotte choked out the words as her stomach knotted and dread welled in her throat. Surely not Anna-Maria . . . so young . . . so lovely . . . so full of life. But not Jeanne, either, she prayed. Or Clarice. And though she had never especially liked Jackson, she certainly didn’t wish him dead, not murdered.

      Such an ugly word, murder. Charlotte swallowed hard and tried to ignore the horrible mental images of violence swirling in her head.

      “Who?” Charlotte repeated.

      The officer shook his head. “Like I said before, ma’am, all I can tell you is there’s been a break-in and a murder.” His words were curt as he gestured toward the side street. “Move along now. You’re holding up traffic.”

      One look at the unrelenting expression on the policeman’s face told Charlotte that even though he knew who the victim was, he wasn’t about to tell her. Further inquiries, she decided, would be a waste of time and energy.

      Left with little choice but to do as he directed, she gripped the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking and guided her van down the side street, away from the cordoned-off area.

      Still in a daze, she’d driven almost half a block when, just ahead, she spotted a parking space. It would be a tight fit, but . . .

      Making a split moment’s decision, she flicked on the right-turn signal. No way was she leaving, she decided with a stubborn set of her jaw. Not until she found out which one of the Dubuissons had been murdered.

      Slowing the van as she neared the parking spot and ignoring the blare of horns from the line of vehicles behind her, she maneuvered the van into the opening.

      During the short walk back to Jackson Avenue, Charlotte spotted three different vans caught in the long line of traffic, each representing a major New Orleans television station. By the time she reached the cordoned off area, a crowd had already gathered.

      Gawkers, the whole lot of them, she thought in disgust. Strangers, with nothing better to do than feed off someone else’s misery. To them, the whole tragedy was simply entertainment, a brief diversion in their otherwise dull, boring existence. At least she had a real reason for being there, a personal stake in waiting around.

      Charlotte didn’t have to wait long. A blue Ford Taurus pulled up beside the young police officer who was directing traffic. Inside the car, seated on the passenger side, was a woman. Though Charlotte was standing at the back of the crowd of gawkers and only caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, she would have recognized her anywhere.

      A badge was flashed. Instead of the officer signaling for the blue Taurus to follow the diverted traffic, he allowed the driver to park beside a nearby police cruiser in the middle of the street.

      Judith.

      Charlotte’s hopes rose as her niece and a man climbed out of the blue car. Now she would finally get some answers.

      Ignoring the grumbling and rude glares of the people she nudged out of her way, she shouldered her way through the crowd.

      Judith Monroe was thirty years old, one of the youngest women ever to reach detective status in the New Orleans Police Department. In looks, Judith resembled her Aunt Charlotte more than she resembled her mother, and over the years, she’d often been mistaken for Charlotte’s daughter rather than her niece. Though she was taller than Charlotte, both had the same honey-brown-colored hair and the same cornflower-blue eyes.

      “Judith!” Charlotte cried out. “Hey, Judith, wait up! Over here!”

      When Judith hesitated, turned, and searched the crowd, Charlotte slipped between the two metal police barricades and waved her arms. Ignoring the shouts of the uniformed officer, she made a beeline for her niece.

      But the policeman was younger and faster than Charlotte. He caught her before she reached her niece.

      “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said as he grabbed her by the upper arm and jerked her to a standstill.

      “But that’s my niece,” she argued, trying to pull free of the officer’s bruising grip while gesturing wildly at Judith with her free hand. “I have to talk to her.”

      “Hey, Billy,” Judith called out as she hurried toward them. “Take it easy. That’s my aunt you’re manhandling.”

      Charlotte glared up at the young officer. “See, I told you she was my niece.” When she tried once again to wrench free from his grip, he released her.

      As Charlotte rubbed the red spot on her arm, stains of scarlet appeared on the officer’s cheeks. Holding up both his hands in a defensive gesture,

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