Maid for Murder Read Free Page B

polishing cloth, which she tucked into the waistband of her slacks.
    After sprinkling the first cloth with lemon oil, she rubbed it into the handrail, tediously working her way down the staircase. It was when she was working her way back up as she polished the handrail that she noticed the scuff marks on the steps, scuff marks almost identical to the kind made by Clarice’s walker.
    Impossible, she thought. Even as wide as the steps were, Clarice’s walker was wider. Charlotte frowned in thought as she stared at the scuff marks. The only way they could have been made by Clarice’s walker was if the walker had been folded and dragged down the stairs, which meant that Clarice would have had to hold on to the banister for support....
    “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered. What on earth was wrong with her, standing there, wasting time obsessing about such a silly thing? Something else or someone’s shoes had to have caused the marks. The only time Clarice ventured down the stairs was when she had her monthly doctor’s exam. Even then, Jeanne enlisted the help of Max, a part-time chauffeur she’d hired to assist her mother.
     
    It was almost noon by the time that Charlotte had scrubbed away the scuff marks on the stairs and cleaned and vacuumed all but the main parlor and the kitchen downstairs. She was ready to begin dusting in the parlor when she heard the clink of dishes coming from the kitchen.
    Jeanne, she decided, had finally come out of her room and was preparing lunch. Once again, she had to admire the younger woman. Jeanne might be hurt or angry with her mother, but she would still take care of her needs.
    Charlotte quickly gathered the supplies she needed and climbed the stairs. Now she could finally clean the master suite; then she would take her own lunch break.
     
    By midafternoon, Charlotte was almost finished with everything but one last chore in the kitchen. As she stacked the last of the plates from the dishwasher into the butler’s pantry, Jeanne entered the kitchen.
    “Charlotte, could we talk for a moment?”
    “Of course.” Charlotte nodded, then closed and locked the door to the dishwasher.
    Jeanne motioned for Charlotte to take a seat at the small breakfast table. But instead of seating herself, Jeanne began to pace the distance between the table and the cabinet. After a moment and a deep, steadying sigh, she finally stopped behind a chair across from where Charlotte sat. Her hands gripped the back of the chair so hard that her knuckles were white.
    “I’m—I’m truly sorry about what happened earlier,” she told Charlotte in a halting voice. “I want to apologize.”
    “You don’t owe me an apology,” Charlotte said gently. “I really understand. Your mother has—er—she has problems.”
    Jeanne grimaced and sat down hard in the nearest chair. “Oh, Charlotte, what am I going to do about her? What Mother has is more than just problems. She’s going senile and seems to be getting worse with each passing day.”
    Charlotte’s heart went out to the younger woman. “Sometimes simply talking about a situation helps,” she suggested. “At least talking seems to work for me.”
    Jeanne placed her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “You’re right, I’m sure. With Anna-Maria off at school and Jackson gone most of the time, I don’t have a chance to talk to anyone much.”
    Charlotte reached over and patted Jeanne’s hand. How sad, she thought. She couldn’t begin to imagine leading such an insular, lonely life. “Well, I’m here now,” Charlotte told her, “and my middle name is discretion, so you just talk all you want to.”
    Jeanne seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. “She’s always making accusations about someone or something,” she blurted out. “Take for instance that stuff she was saying this morning about Jackson. Why, Jackson isn’t even home half the time, what with all of the late nights he’s been keeping at the office lately. When he is