Dusted to Death by Barbara Colley Page B

was yet another reminder that she really needed to phone Bitsy, and the sooner the better. “No time like the present,” she whispered. She pulled her cell phone out of her apron pocket and scanned the list of names programmed into the phone until she found Bitsy’s cell number. Bitsy answered on the second ring.
    “Hey, Bitsy, this is Charlotte.”
    “Well, I was wondering when you were going to call me.”
    Oh, no, did Bitsy already know about the murder?
    “I’ve been dying to know what Hunter Lansky is like in person.”
    Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently, Bitsy hadn’t heard the news yet. “Bitsy, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
    “Please don’t tell me that they broke something, or worse, that they burned my house down.”
    Detecting the panic in the old lady’s voice, Charlotte quickly reassured her. “No—nothing like that. But brace yourself. There’s been a murder.”
    “Did you say a murder?”
    “I’m afraid so. One of Angel Martinique’s friends was found murdered in the upstairs guest room this morning—the guest room closest to the stairwell.” Knowing Bitsy and how she loved to gossip, Charlotte decided against telling her that she was the one who found the body. Telling Bitsy that would guarantee that everyone in New Orleans would find out.
    “Which one of her friends? Was it her boyfriend? Do they know who did it?”
    Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment. Oh, brother, here we go.
    “Well, who was murdered?” Bitsy demanded.
    Opening her eyes, Charlotte said, “I can’t tell you that, Bitsy.”
    “Why the deuce not?”
    “Because I was told by the investigating detective not to give out any names.”
    “Well, surely he didn’t mean me. After all, it’s my house. Hmm, maybe I should take a cab and come over there.”
    “No, Bitsy, don’t do that. For one thing, the police wouldn’t let you past the barricades, and for another thing, the media is all over the place.”
    “They’re not in my house, are they?”
    Again, the panicky sound. “No—they’re being held behind barricades.”
    “How was this person killed? Is there blood everywhere?”
    Ignoring the first question, Charlotte said, “Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.” Whether it was from the heat or from trying to keep up with Bitsy’s scattered thought processes, Charlotte could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.
    “I certainly hope so,” Bitsy retorted. “The rug in that room is an antique. I paid a fortune for it. But now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember if I kept the sales receipt or if it got lost during Katrina. That lawyer—Jake something or other was his name—anyway, he said that Mega Films would reimburse me for any damages, but I’ll need some way to verify the expense.”
    Sweat trickled down Charlotte’s back, and her head was getting worse by the minute. If she didn’t end the call soon, Bitsy would be off on another tangent. “Listen, Bitsy, I’ve got to go now, but I mostly wanted to let you know what was happening before you saw it on the news.”
    “I still think I should come over there.”
    Emphasizing each word, Charlotte said, “Don’t—do that. I’ll keep you updated—I promise. Like I said, I’ve got to go. Bye, now.”
    Charlotte quickly depressed the button to end the phone call and headed for the front door. The moment she stepped back through the doorway, the blessedly cool air inside engulfed her, and she sighed with relief. Now if only she had a glass of water and some Tylenol, maybe she could get rid of her headache.
     
    It was late afternoon when Max Morris, the director, called everyone together and announced that, regretfully, shooting at the house would be suspended indefinitely until the police concluded their investigation. As soon as the police gave the go-ahead for the shooting to resume, everyone would be contacted.
    Then Gavin Brown stood up. “All of you can leave now, but a word of caution. Don’t