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 the décor of the house. The house itself was a dream and had been beautifully preserved. Charlotte suspected that the exquisite chandeliers, the ornate ceiling medallions, and the Italian marble mantelpiece over the fireplace were original to the house. The colorful ceiling frescoes in the magnificent ballroom also impressed her.
Too bad the furnishings, the eclectic contemporary artwork, and the drapes were so pretentious that they bordered on gaudy, and in Charlotte’s opinion, were much too flashy to be tasteful.
In the front parlor, Charlotte had to really work to keep her expression impassive. Of all things, bookcases lined one entire wall. Though they were filled with what she suspected were rare collectibles, bookcases in the formal parlor were unheard of and considered crass.
If possible, the library was even worse. A huge ornate oak desk dominated the center of the room, and facing the desk were two leather Chippendale wing chairs. But what really caught her attention and sent a shiver down her spine was the vast display of some really wicked-looking knives, guns, and swords that hung on one of the walls.
Immediately, the Rossis’ children came to mind. Didn’t Robert Rossi realize just how dangerous such a collection could be with children around?
“You must take extra care when dusting these.”
Emily’s voice jerked Charlotte out of her reverie and she glanced over to where the younger woman was standing.
“These are Robert’s pride and joy, so please, do be careful when you dust them.”
Charlotte stepped closer to the huge glass-enclosed curio cabinet and stared at what could only be authentic Fabergé eggs. “Will I need a key or something to open the case?”
Emily shrugged. “No key. I’ve tried to get Robert to install a security system for them, but he says that’s what he pays the bodyguards for.” She shrugged again. “That, and other things.”
“They’re beautiful,” Charlotte murmured. She had seen collections of the eggs before, most under lock and key, but in all of her years of working in Garden District homes, she couldn’t remember ever seeing so many in one place. Of course, considering who Robert Rossi was, a thief would be a fool to steal from him.
“Yes, they are beautiful, and several are priceless—one of a kind. I should know.” Emily’s voice held a note of resentment as she reached up and smoothed her fingers over her cheek.
Though Charlotte didn’t totally understand the connection between the eggs and Emily’s cheek, she understood enough to suspect that the makeup covered a bruise, not a scar, and the implication fueled a deep-seated fury. In addition to Robert Rossi’s obvious sins due to his connection to the Mafia, was he also abusive to his wife?
“Robert counts them every day.” Emily grimaced. Then, as if she’d suddenly realized what she was doing, she dropped her hand. With a forced smile, she said, “Never mind that. Why don’t we head upstairs?”
The oak banister of the sweeping spiral staircase was definitely original to the house, Charlotte decided, as they climbed the steps to the second floor. The handrail had the look of years of use about it.
“There are five bedroom suites upstairs,” Emily told her when they reached the second-floor landing. “And each has its own private bathroom. This is the master bedroom suite.” Emily opened the door nearest the staircase.
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open when she stepped inside. The huge room reminded her of a turn-of-the-century Victorian whorehouse, and she had to make a concerted effort to close her mouth. The predominately red room with its dark, oversized furniture, flocked wallpaper, bloodred velvet bedspread and matching drapes was claustrophobic and jarring to the senses. And it was hard not to notice the skimpy black-and-red negligée carelessly