older than Emily. Of course he is almost fifteen years older, but so what? My late husband, rest his soul, was ten years older than me.”
Bitsy waved her hand. “And that other business—you know—that gossip about Robert’s first wife and children disappearing.”
Though Charlotte knew she would regret asking, the words just popped out. “‘Disappearing’? I don’t remember anything about that.”
Bitsy sniffed as if it were no concern at all. “Well, there’s two versions. Some say she ran around on Robert, got pregnant by her lover, then took the two kids and ran away to South America with him. Of course others say that Robert had her and the baby murdered and stashed his two children away in a boarding school. But that’s all just a bunch of mean-spirited gossip—a bunch of hooey, if you ask me. Besides which, Emily is a sweet, kindhearted person, and she wouldn’t have married Robert if she thought for one moment that he’d done half of what he’s been accused of doing.”
Charlotte shuddered. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t made the connection when she’d first talked to Emily, couldn’t believe that she’d actually accepted a job working for the Mafia. It was well-known that Robert Rossi was one of the wealthiest, most ruthless mafiosi in the country.
And what if Bitsy was wrong? What if the rumors were true and he had murdered his first wife? After all, he had been the primary suspect in the murder of Roberto Rossi, his own father, and that wasn’t just gossip. In fact, it had been all over the television news and in the newspapers for weeks. Even the national media had picked it up. Of course, in the end, the courts had been unable to prove Robert’s guilt and he’d been acquitted.
Charlotte shuddered again. Emily might be sweet and kind, but according to everything she’d ever heard about Robert, he was anything but. Regardless of Bitsy’s rose-colored opinion of Emily, Charlotte figured that either Emily was blind, deaf, and dumb, or she just flat-out didn’t have good sense for marrying Robert Rossi in the first place. Charlotte also figured that she’d just made a huge mistake agreeing to work for Emily.
“Besides,” Bitsy went on, “nothing was ever proven about his father’s murder. As for his wife and children, you and I both know that anything could have happened. Just because they disappeared doesn’t mean he had them killed.”
A shiver ran up Charlotte’s spine. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.
“But I guess I should warn you of one thing,” Bitsy said.
What now? Charlotte wondered.
“Because of the ugly rumors connected with the family, there will probably be bodyguards all over the place. Don’t be surprised if you get frisked before you’re allowed inside the house. Humph!” Bitsy made a face. “Why, last time I visited Emily, they even frisked me.” She suddenly chuckled. “Can you imagine anyone thinking that I could be some kind of hit woman?”
Only if your mouth counts as a lethal weapon.
Charlotte winced and was immediately sorry for the unkind thought. Bitsy was a terrible gossip but she was also a lonely old lady who had nothing better to do with her time.
“Thanks for the warning,” Charlotte said with a forced smile. Since she figured she’d had enough gossip and enough of Bitsy for one day, she picked up her supply carrier and vacuum cleaner, then set out with purposeful steps toward the front door. “Have a good time in California,” Charlotte called out over her shoulder as she hurried out. Despite Bitsy’s flattering recommendation, Charlotte suddenly wished that the old lady had kept her mouth shut and never mentioned her to Emily Rossi.
Once she got home, Charlotte decided to go ahead and try to set up interview appointments for late Saturday afternoon with the three people that she had chosen as a result of her newspaper ad. Now, more than ever, she needed to hire replacements for Cheré and Nadia.
For the rest of the afternoon though, and during the following day, she tried her best to come up with an excuse that sounded good enough to get her out of the commitment that she’d made to work for the Rossis.
As Charlotte resignedly climbed into her van on Thursday morning, she murmured, “So be it.” Other than outright lying, there was no good reason not to keep her commitment. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to tick off the Mafia, and she would only be working for the Rossis for four days. Surely nothing horrible could happen in four short days?
Thursday-morning traffic was light, and in no time she was searching for the address that Emily Rossi had given her. When Charlotte spotted the house, she smiled and parked the van alongside the curb. She’d driven past the enormous Italianate mansion numerous times and had often wondered who owned it and what it looked like inside. With its four imposing columns and the way the double verandas curved at the ends, the facade reminded her of vanilla ice cream and a wedding cake combined. Each Christmas, when the Preservation Resource Center held its annual Holiday Home Tour, she had always hoped that the beautiful old home would be one of the houses featured 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