Chapter One

“Nadia, it's okay. Just calm down, hon.” Charlotte LaRue spoke softly into the telephone receiver as she interrupted the young woman's tearful tirade. "Believe me, I understand. I really do," she stressed. "Little Davy has to come first, and you can't help it if he's ill. But Nadia, dear, just this once, couldn't Ricco take him to the doctor? I know you need the money, and this will make two days this week you've had to miss work."

Charlotte drummed her fingers on the desktop while she listened to Nadia's string of excuses why her unemployed live-in boyfriend didn't have the time to take his own son to the doctor or stay with him that day.

With a sigh of frustration, Charlotte glanced at the clock on the wall. In spite of the clock being a silly cuckoo that she'd picked up on a whim at a flea market, it kept excellent time. And according to the time showing, she was going to be late if she didn't leave soon.

"Hmm, I see," Charlotte finally told Nadia, though she really didn't understand at all. "Don't cry, now. I'm sure things will work out. Just take care of that sweet little boy and let me know when you're free to work again."

Charlotte hung up the receiver and made a silent vow to have a real heart-to-heart talk with Nadia about her freeloading boyfriend. Charlotte had met Ricco Martinez on several occasions, and nothing about the man had impressed her. In Charlotte's opinion, the only reason Ricco Martinez stayed around was for the free room and board.

She'd often wondered why Nadia continued to put up with him, but the only conclusion she'd come to was that Nadia had convinced herself she was doing it for Davy's sake. What the younger woman didn't realize, though, and what Charlotte knew from her own personal experience, was if a boy was given enough love and attention, he could grow up just fine without a father, especially a no-account father like Ricco.

Yes, she decided. She definitely needed to have that heart-to-heart talk with the younger woman.

Charlotte flipped through the Rolodex near the phone and finally located the phone number of Janet Davis, one of the three women Charlotte employed on a temporary basis.

Janet answered on the third ring. "This is Charlotte, Janet. I'm so glad I caught you at home. I apologize for such short notice, but I hope you're free to work today."

Janet said she was free, and Charlotte quickly gave her the address of the client's home. "And Janet, Mrs. Dufore likes the ceiling fans dusted each time we clean her house. There's a small ladder in the downstairs storage closet you can use. She's also very particular about the shower in the master bath. Make sure you get rid of all the soap scum, especially around the drain."

Charlotte ended the conversation, grabbed her purse, and fished out the keys to her van. "Thank God it's Friday," she muttered. Satisfied that yet another crisis had been averted and with one last glance at the phone as if daring it to ring again, she headed for the front door. "Bye-bye, Sweety Boy," she called over her shoulder. "Be a good little bird today and I'll see you later."

From his cage near the front window, the little parakeet's answer was to burst into a series of chirps and whistles that made Charlotte smile as she pulled the front door firmly shut behind her, then locked it.

The small Victorian shotgun double that Charlotte lived in was located on Milan Street, just blocks away from the exclusive, historic New Orleans Garden District. The hundred-year-old double had been inherited by Charlotte and her younger sister, Madeline, after their parents' untimely deaths, and each half included a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath.

Unlike her sister, though, who had long ago sold her half of the double to Charlotte right after her first marriage, Charlotte had never felt the urge or the need to live anywhere else.

To Charlotte, the old Victorian double was more than just the home in which she'd grown up and raised her son. The location was perfect for her thriving, sometimes hectic cleaning service, since all of her clients lived in the Garden District.

Over the years, she'd thought about branching out, expanding her business to other parts of the city, but when it came right down to it, she couldn't imagine working anywhere else.

The Old World ambience of the Garden District, with its many huge, imposing mansions, several well over a century old, was like taking a step back in time. She loved everything about the unique neighborhood--its narrow streets and hundred-year-old moss-draped oaks that shaded them, the brick sidewalks, the formal gardens, lush with ferns, azaleas, palms, and other subtropical vegetation.

Compared to the rest of New Orleans, living near and working in the Garden District was like taking a breath of country air.

Traffic wasn't too bad until Charlotte reached the intersection of Milan and Magazine streets. Turning left onto Magazine was always tricky under the best of circumstances at that time of morning, for there was no traffic light and most of the traffic on the right side was flowing toward downtown. To make matters worse, a large delivery van was parked on the corner, effectively blocking sight of the oncoming vehicles.

When several minutes passed and traffic hadn't budged, Charlotte knew she was in trouble. She glanced around, looking for an alternative route, then groaned. Ordinarily, she could have taken one of the many side streets and avoided the congested area, but the closest one was blocked off by a crew from the Sewerage and Water Board, patching yet another part of the century-old underground drainage system.

In the thirty-plus years since she'd founded Maid-for-a-Day, she'd always prided herself on being thorough and punctual, something that she absolutely insisted on from the two full-time and three part-time women she employed. The one thing customers hated most besides a sloppy cleaning job was having to wait for the maid to show up. Thanks to Nadia, today looked as if it were going to be one of the rare exceptions to her rule.

Charlotte reached for her cell phone and punched out the number of her client, Jeanne Dubuisson. A bit embarrassed, she explained that she was stuck in traffic and would probably be a few minutes late.

By the time Charlotte parked her van on the street that ran alongside the nineteenth-century Greek Revival mansion belonging to the Dubuissons, she noted that even with the last-minute crisis with Nadia and the snarl of work traffic, she was only a few minutes later than normal. Not that Jeanne had any particular place to go. Certainly not to an outside job.

Jeanne St. Martin Dubuisson was wealthy in her own right, having come from an old, established New Orleans family, but Jackson, Jeanne's husband, was also one of the city's most prestigious attorneys. Jeanne could well afford to simply do nothing. If not for her invalid mother, she might have been tempted to join her socially prominent contemporaries who spent their days running from one luncheon to another or heading up notable charitable committees.

Charlotte preferred to use her own cleaning supplies when servicing a customer. From the back of the van, she selected the various cleaners and waxes she would need and placed them in the special carrier she used. She would have to make another trip later for the vacuum cleaner.