. . prison . . . didn’t do it . . .”
Abruptly, the outside noise stopped. But Bitsy didn’t miss a beat.
“. . . poor boy wasted five years of his life stuck in prison, and all because of that awful Andrew St. Martin.”
Charlotte’s hand stilled at the mention of Jeanne’s father, and she turned to face Bitsy. “But Mr. St. Martin died fifteen years ago.”
Bitsy nodded. “Of course he did,” she continued, seeming to relish Charlotte’s undivided attention. “Andrew was murdered fifteen years ago, which was after the five years that Brian served in prison. He was murdered just about the time Brian was finally released.”
Charlotte indicated that she understood with a nod, but Bitsy didn’t slow down or miss a beat.
“Lordy me, I still remember when Brian was convicted and sent away,” she continued. “Poor Joseph moped around for weeks. I felt so sorry for that man—for both of them. To this day he still claims that Brian didn’t do it, that he was set up. He said that Brian might be guilty of a lot of things, but he wasn’t a thief no matter what Andrew told the police.”
Bitsy made a sound of disgust. “That Andrew was a piece of work, though. If I’m lying, I’m dying, but he was nasty through and through. Not only was he mean as a snake to Clarice and Jeanne, but he didn’t care who got hurt just as long as he got what he wanted. And one thing he didn’t want was Brian sniffing around his daughter.”
Charlotte frowned. Following Bitsy’s ping-pong monologue was like being lost in a maze. “Are you talking about Jeanne . . . and the gardener’s son, before Andrew was murdered?”
Bitsy nodded her head. “Of course that’s who I’m talking about. My goodness, Charlotte, pay attention. According to Joseph, Brian and Jeanne were planning on running off together, but old Andrew put a stop to it and got rid of Brian, all in one fell swoop. Claimed that Brian stole some valuable tools. Humph!” Bitsy took on an affronted look. “As if Andrew St. Martin ever touched any kind of tool in his life. Well, the tools were found in Brian’s truck, all right, but Brian swore that Andrew put them there. Poor Brian might as well’ve been whistling Dixie. That boy never had a chance, especially since Andrew and the judge presiding over Brian’s trial were big golfing buddies.
“But you mark my words.” Bitsy shook her finger. “What goes around in this life comes around, and people get paid back for the things they do. Yes, siree, old Andrew St. Martin got his.”
“Because he was murdered?”
Again, Bitsy nodded, a smug look on her face. “Whoever did it broke right in through the French doors, robbed the safe, then bashed Andrew in the head. They found him the next morning slumped over his desk. Some say he had to be drunk as a skunk, since it didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight.”
In her mind’s eye, Charlotte had no trouble picturing the horrible scenario, and a sick feeling curled in her stomach.
But Bitsy wasn’t through. She leaned closer to Charlotte in a conspiratorial manner. “They tried to pin it on his wife, Clarice, you know. Said she had either done it herself or hired it to be done, all because Andrew was getting ready to hand over everything to his new son-in-law, Jackson.”
The old lady grinned. “Clarice fooled them all, though. She had an alibi. And since the murder weapon was never found, there wasn’t a dad-gum thing they could do.”
“Alibi? What kind of alibi?” Charlotte found herself asking.
“Not what. Who? Jeanne. Jeanne was Clarice’s alibi. Swore that she and her mother were together that whole evening. Said Clarice had been sick with a stomach flu and she’d nursed her mother that whole night long.”
What Bitsy had divulged was shocking. Though Charlotte kept reminding herself that half of what Bitsy said was probably pure gossip, she couldn’t help being fascinated by the old lady’s story.
“So what about Brian?”
Abruptly, the outside noise stopped. But Bitsy didn’t miss a beat.
“. . . poor boy wasted five years of his life stuck in prison, and all because of that awful Andrew St. Martin.”
Charlotte’s hand stilled at the mention of Jeanne’s father, and she turned to face Bitsy. “But Mr. St. Martin died fifteen years ago.”
Bitsy nodded. “Of course he did,” she continued, seeming to relish Charlotte’s undivided attention. “Andrew was murdered fifteen years ago, which was after the five years that Brian served in prison. He was murdered just about the time Brian was finally released.”
Charlotte indicated that she understood with a nod, but Bitsy didn’t slow down or miss a beat.
“Lordy me, I still remember when Brian was convicted and sent away,” she continued. “Poor Joseph moped around for weeks. I felt so sorry for that man—for both of them. To this day he still claims that Brian didn’t do it, that he was set up. He said that Brian might be guilty of a lot of things, but he wasn’t a thief no matter what Andrew told the police.”
Bitsy made a sound of disgust. “That Andrew was a piece of work, though. If I’m lying, I’m dying, but he was nasty through and through. Not only was he mean as a snake to Clarice and Jeanne, but he didn’t care who got hurt just as long as he got what he wanted. And one thing he didn’t want was Brian sniffing around his daughter.”
Charlotte frowned. Following Bitsy’s ping-pong monologue was like being lost in a maze. “Are you talking about Jeanne . . . and the gardener’s son, before Andrew was murdered?”
Bitsy nodded her head. “Of course that’s who I’m talking about. My goodness, Charlotte, pay attention. According to Joseph, Brian and Jeanne were planning on running off together, but old Andrew put a stop to it and got rid of Brian, all in one fell swoop. Claimed that Brian stole some valuable tools. Humph!” Bitsy took on an affronted look. “As if Andrew St. Martin ever touched any kind of tool in his life. Well, the tools were found in Brian’s truck, all right, but Brian swore that Andrew put them there. Poor Brian might as well’ve been whistling Dixie. That boy never had a chance, especially since Andrew and the judge presiding over Brian’s trial were big golfing buddies.
“But you mark my words.” Bitsy shook her finger. “What goes around in this life comes around, and people get paid back for the things they do. Yes, siree, old Andrew St. Martin got his.”
“Because he was murdered?”
Again, Bitsy nodded, a smug look on her face. “Whoever did it broke right in through the French doors, robbed the safe, then bashed Andrew in the head. They found him the next morning slumped over his desk. Some say he had to be drunk as a skunk, since it didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight.”
In her mind’s eye, Charlotte had no trouble picturing the horrible scenario, and a sick feeling curled in her stomach.
But Bitsy wasn’t through. She leaned closer to Charlotte in a conspiratorial manner. “They tried to pin it on his wife, Clarice, you know. Said she had either done it herself or hired it to be done, all because Andrew was getting ready to hand over everything to his new son-in-law, Jackson.”
The old lady grinned. “Clarice fooled them all, though. She had an alibi. And since the murder weapon was never found, there wasn’t a dad-gum thing they could do.”
“Alibi? What kind of alibi?” Charlotte found herself asking.
“Not what. Who? Jeanne. Jeanne was Clarice’s alibi. Swore that she and her mother were together that whole evening. Said Clarice had been sick with a stomach flu and she’d nursed her mother that whole night long.”
What Bitsy had divulged was shocking. Though Charlotte kept reminding herself that half of what Bitsy said was probably pure gossip, she couldn’t help being fascinated by the old lady’s story.
“So what about Brian?”
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