she asked. “What happened to him—after prison, I mean?”
“Joseph wanted him to come work with him, but Brian seemed to think it would be best if he went somewhere else, somewhere he could make a clean start. So he took off for California—built up his own gardening service out there. But now that Joseph’s arthritis is so bad, Brian finally agreed to come back and help his father out until next month, when Joseph plans to retire.”
Charlotte frowned. “Seems to me that the police would have suspected Brian of the murder, seeing that it was because of Andrew that he was sent to prison in the first place.”
Bitsy made a sound of frustration. “No, no, no. Brian didn’t get out until the day after Andrew was murdered. Didn’t I already say that?”
Bitsy had once confided in Charlotte that she worried about Alzheimer’s and senility because of her advanced age, and she prided herself on her memory. Since the older lady was looking more distressed with each passing moment, Charlotte decided against pointing out that she had been vague about the specific date of Brian’s release from prison. To Charlotte, the omission wasn’t a big deal, anyway, but she sensed that it would be to Bitsy, so she simply shrugged instead and decided to change the subject.
“Is there anything in particular you want me to give extra attention to this morning?”
For a moment, Bitsy looked confused; then she brightened. “I’m putting my granddaughter in the pink guest room—the one with my doll collection in it. That’s where she used to stay when she was a little girl. Just make sure you change the sheets on the bed and make sure you use lemon oil on everything. I just love the smell of lemon oil . . .”
Bitsy immediately launched into a monologue on the advantages of using lemon oil versus the modem spray waxes, but Charlotte let the rest of what she said wash right over her. Gathering her supplies, she moved into the living-room area.
As usual, Bitsy followed her every footstep. And as usual, the only breaks she got from the old lady’s constant chatter during the next four hours were the times that the phone rang.
By twelve, Charlotte had finished cleaning, and none too soon as far as she was concerned. At some point around midmorning, she’d felt the beginnings of a dull headache, and not even the two aspirins she’d swallowed had helped.
As she stepped out into the bright noonday sun, she groaned and squinted against the glare. No more Saturday-morning jobs, she silently vowed as she loaded the last of the cleaning supplies into the back of her van. And no more late Friday-night parties after working all day.
“Charlotte! Wait! Come back!”
The sound of Bitsy’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Charlotte tensed. “What now?” she grumbled, slamming the back door of the van. She could always simply ignore the old lady, she thought. She could pretend she didn’t hear her, jump into her van, and take off.
Then shame washed through her as she remembered the look of pride on Bitsy’s face as she’d surveyed the spotlessly clean house. All the old lady wanted was for everything to be nice for her granddaughter’s visit, and true to her word, she had paid extra for Charlotte coming in on such short notice.
With a weary sigh, Charlotte forced a smile, turned, and trudged back toward the house.
Bitsy met her at the bottom of the steps. “I forgot to give you these.” She thrust a bulky paper sack toward Charlotte. “On top is one of those chickens I told you about. Beneath are some books I just finished. Don’t worry, though. I wrapped the chicken in foil so it wouldn’t leak on the books.”
Charlotte accepted the sack and felt even more guilty about her uncharitable attitude. “Thank you,” she said humbly.
Bitsy was a voracious reader, for she had little to occupy her time but gossip and doctors’ appointments, and she was always passing along books to Charlotte. Their love of
“Joseph wanted him to come work with him, but Brian seemed to think it would be best if he went somewhere else, somewhere he could make a clean start. So he took off for California—built up his own gardening service out there. But now that Joseph’s arthritis is so bad, Brian finally agreed to come back and help his father out until next month, when Joseph plans to retire.”
Charlotte frowned. “Seems to me that the police would have suspected Brian of the murder, seeing that it was because of Andrew that he was sent to prison in the first place.”
Bitsy made a sound of frustration. “No, no, no. Brian didn’t get out until the day after Andrew was murdered. Didn’t I already say that?”
Bitsy had once confided in Charlotte that she worried about Alzheimer’s and senility because of her advanced age, and she prided herself on her memory. Since the older lady was looking more distressed with each passing moment, Charlotte decided against pointing out that she had been vague about the specific date of Brian’s release from prison. To Charlotte, the omission wasn’t a big deal, anyway, but she sensed that it would be to Bitsy, so she simply shrugged instead and decided to change the subject.
“Is there anything in particular you want me to give extra attention to this morning?”
For a moment, Bitsy looked confused; then she brightened. “I’m putting my granddaughter in the pink guest room—the one with my doll collection in it. That’s where she used to stay when she was a little girl. Just make sure you change the sheets on the bed and make sure you use lemon oil on everything. I just love the smell of lemon oil . . .”
Bitsy immediately launched into a monologue on the advantages of using lemon oil versus the modem spray waxes, but Charlotte let the rest of what she said wash right over her. Gathering her supplies, she moved into the living-room area.
As usual, Bitsy followed her every footstep. And as usual, the only breaks she got from the old lady’s constant chatter during the next four hours were the times that the phone rang.
By twelve, Charlotte had finished cleaning, and none too soon as far as she was concerned. At some point around midmorning, she’d felt the beginnings of a dull headache, and not even the two aspirins she’d swallowed had helped.
As she stepped out into the bright noonday sun, she groaned and squinted against the glare. No more Saturday-morning jobs, she silently vowed as she loaded the last of the cleaning supplies into the back of her van. And no more late Friday-night parties after working all day.
“Charlotte! Wait! Come back!”
The sound of Bitsy’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Charlotte tensed. “What now?” she grumbled, slamming the back door of the van. She could always simply ignore the old lady, she thought. She could pretend she didn’t hear her, jump into her van, and take off.
Then shame washed through her as she remembered the look of pride on Bitsy’s face as she’d surveyed the spotlessly clean house. All the old lady wanted was for everything to be nice for her granddaughter’s visit, and true to her word, she had paid extra for Charlotte coming in on such short notice.
With a weary sigh, Charlotte forced a smile, turned, and trudged back toward the house.
Bitsy met her at the bottom of the steps. “I forgot to give you these.” She thrust a bulky paper sack toward Charlotte. “On top is one of those chickens I told you about. Beneath are some books I just finished. Don’t worry, though. I wrapped the chicken in foil so it wouldn’t leak on the books.”
Charlotte accepted the sack and felt even more guilty about her uncharitable attitude. “Thank you,” she said humbly.
Bitsy was a voracious reader, for she had little to occupy her time but gossip and doctors’ appointments, and she was always passing along books to Charlotte. Their love of
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