on the tour. At least now she knew who it belonged to. And now she also knew why it had never been showcased. No way would a Mafia don open his home to just anyone.
The house was located on a corner lot much larger than most in the Garden District. Behind the main house, toward the back of the property, another building was visible. Charlotte was fairly certain that it had once served as a carriage house, but like many of the old carriage houses, it had been renovated into what looked like another, much smaller home. Possibly a guesthouse, she figured.
A high wrought-iron fence encased the entire property, and the grounds were meticulously groomed. While Charlotte unloaded her supply carrier and vacuum cleaner, she eyed the gate. It was probably locked, she decided. But even if it was locked, she figured that there was either a call box or buzzer of some kind that would alert someone inside that a visitor was at the gate.
Wondering where all of the bodyguards were that Bitsy had mentioned, and with a firm grip on her vacuum cleaner and supply carrier, she approached the gate. Without warning, a man suddenly appeared from behind a huge azalea bush, giving Charlotte a start.
The man stood well over six feet tall and had a face that reminded Charlotte of a growling bulldog. Because of his close-cropped gray hair and wrinkle-lined face, she figured that he was probably in his fifties and estimated that he weighed around two-fifty. At least now she knew the answer to her question about the bodyguards’ whereabouts.
“Ah—hello. Good—Good morning,” Charlotte stuttered. “My name is Charlotte LaRue and I’m with Maid-for-a-Day.”
In a voice that sounded like a grinder he said, “I need to see some identification.”
Charlotte set down the vacuum cleaner and supply carrier, then slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder. From inside her purse she pulled out her billfold, slipped out her driver’s license, and held it out for the man to see.
The man narrowed his eyes and glanced from the license picture to Charlotte then nodded.
Once Charlotte was inside the gate, he escorted her to the front gallery where another, younger man stepped out from behind one of the columns.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the younger man said. “But I have to search you. If you’ll just put your arms up, this won’t take but a minute.”
The sight of the younger man pricked Charlotte’s memory. Something about him seemed familiar, and she wondered if she’d met him before.
As the younger man patted her down, she searched her memory for where and when she could have met him, while she watched the older man inspect her supply carrier and vacuum cleaner.
Charlotte was thankful that Bitsy had given her advance warning about being frisked. Otherwise she would have been outraged. The entire procedure only took a few minutes. Both men were thorough, but they were also courteous and performed the inspections with a detachment that could in no way be construed as personal or invasive. By the time they finished, Charlotte had decided that she was mistaken about knowing the younger bodyguard.
The older man returned to the gate. The younger one went to the front door and gave the door knocker a couple of whacks. While they waited, Charlotte admired the huge Mardi Gras wreath that almost covered the upper half of the entrance door. Rows and rows of shiny purple, gold, and green tinsel had been wrapped around the base of the wreath and were sprinkled with tiny Mardi Gras masks, King Cake babies, and glittering Mardi Gras beads.
The wreath reminded Charlotte that she’d yet to put out her own Mardi Gras decorations. As she tried to decide which day she would decorate, the door swung open.
The bodyguard nodded deferentially at the slim, attractive, dark-haired woman. “Mrs. Rossi, this is Charlotte LaRue, the maid.”
“Thank you, Mark.”
Emily Rossi had startling sky-blue eyes and looked to be in her mid-thirties. Charlotte could tell that the pale green slacks and matching sweater she wore were expensive, and though her makeup was, for the most part, flawless, it seemed to be caked on pretty thick over her left cheek. Charlotte had to wonder what the younger woman was trying to hide. Maybe a scar, or…Charlotte swallowed hard. Or possibly a bruise.
“Charlotte, come in, come in.” Emily motioned for Charlotte to come inside. “I’m truly sorry that the guys had to frisk you, but unfortunately it’s a necessity that we have to live with. My husband has many enemies who would love nothing better than to…” Her voice faded away. She sighed, then, smiled. “Never mind all of that. Next time you come, it shouldn’t be necessary. Now”—she motioned for Charlotte to follow her—“why don’t we go to the kitchen and we can discuss what needs to be done?”
Charlotte only got a glimpse of the front rooms as she followed Emily down the wide entrance hall back to the kitchen, but a glimpse was all she needed. Over the years she had been in enough of the old mansions in the Garden District to know the difference between elegant and tacky when she saw it, and the furnishings and décor of this house were tacky. She would have thought that with all of the money that the Rossis supposedly had, they could have afforded the best decorator in the country. In Charlotte’s opinion, whomever Emily had hired as a decorator should be run out of town on a rail for the mess he or she had made.
Charlotte bit her tongue when an imp of mischief urged her to ask for the name of the decorator. It’s none of your business, so just keep your mouth shut. Considering that Emily’s husband was reportedly a big-time mobster, she decided she’d probably better listen to her inner voice of reason instead.
In the kitchen Emily indicated that Charlotte should sit at the kitchen table, then she seated herself across from Charlotte. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you helping me out on such short notice,” she said. “And I’m going to have to apologize again. It’s been a week since the last time Jennifer cleaned, and I’m afraid that even when she did clean, she didn’t do a very good job.
“Of course she’s young,” Emily hastened to add. “Robert was the one who hired the poor thing. She’d been working as a cocktail waitress in a really sleazy bar, and he felt sorry for her.”
I’ll just bet he did, Charlotte thought, picturing a twenty-something sweet young thing who was hot to trot. Was it possible that Emily was truly that naïve?
Emily grimaced. “Between you and me, I’m kind of hoping Jennifer doesn’t come back.”
Maybe not so naive after all.
“Anyway,” Emily continued, “the whole house needs a good dusting and polishing, vacuuming, and mopping. The kitchen is a mess too. And if you have time, clean sheets on all the beds would be heaven. I’ve been trying to keep everything straight, but with Robert’s mother living with us and the children underfoot, cooking, not to mention the bodyguards who are in and out, well”—she shrugged—“there just aren’t enough hours in the day. And now there’s this—this party that Robert wants to give.”
Just talking about the chores seemed to distress Emily, and Charlotte truly felt sorry for her. Before she thought about it, she reached over and patted Emily’s hand. “Now don’t you worry about a thing. It will all get done. So, why don’t you show me around so I can get started?”
Emily released a huge sigh and smiled brightly. “We can start here and work our way upstairs.”
As Emily gave her a guided tour of the huge mansion, what Charlotte saw only further confirmed her initial impression of
