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at it again.
    Patsy was extremely paranoid about security, but to Charlotte’s surprise, the main entrance gate was unlocked.
    Once Charlotte had unloaded her supply carrier, she locked the van and climbed the steps leading up to the front gallery. At the door, she rang the doorbell and waited. She rang it again. When Patsy still didn’t answer, she left her supply carrier by the door and headed around to the side of the house to where stepping-stones formed a path to the back of the property.
    The backyard was a beehive of activity. Men armed with shovels were scooping up the black dirt and loading it into wheelbarrows as fast as a noisy backhoe could dig it out of the ground. Even with all the noise and bustle, Charlotte spotted Patsy almost immediately. And in her arms was Missy, the little Pekingese that was Patsy’s constant companion.
    Dressed in spotlessly clean lime green Capri pants and a matching short-sleeved sweater, Patsy was standing on the edge of the huge hole that was being dug out by the backhoe.
    A divorcee in her early forties, Patsy lived alone except for Missy. Charlotte had always heard that pet owners sometimes resembled their pets, but she’d never really thought much about it until she’d met Patsy Dufour and Missy. She’d decided that in Patsy’s case, it was true.
    Though not an ugly woman, Patsy wasn’t exactly attractive, either. Like Missy, she was compact, with a heavy front and lighter hindquarters. The one real asset that Patsy possessed was her thick, dark hair. She wore it in a classic page-boy style, and it was streaked with a healthy sheen of auburn highlights.
    The moment that Patsy spotted Charlotte, she flashed her a huge smile, then signaled to the man operating the backhoe to cut off the machine. Once the noisy machine shut down, Patsy walked briskly toward Charlotte.
    Just like Patsy , thought Charlotte. Overseeing every little detail.
    “Hey there,” Patsy greeted her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
    Charlotte gave her a quick smile. “I guess that means you didn’t get my phone message. I’m taking Nadia’s place today. She’s ill with a nasty stomach virus.”
    “Oh, that’s too bad—poor thing—and, no, I’m afraid I didn’t get the message.” She motioned toward the men. “But I’ve been so busy this morning that I haven’t checked for any messages. Here, let me show you.” Without waiting for a response, she promptly took Charlotte by the arm and pulled her toward the hole being dug.
    “Just look at it. After almost a year of planning, my dream is coming true. I’m finally going to get my pond. Of course it won’t be as large as I had originally hoped for, but the design and landscaping will make up for what it lacks in size.
    “Just as well,” she continued. “My next project will need lots of room.” The excitement in Patsy’s voice grew. “I’ve been studying the Rosedown gardens and would just love to duplicate some of what’s been done there—on a much smaller scale, of course,” she added. “But what I’d really love is to get my hands on some of those heritage plants growing there. And what I wouldn’t give to have copies of Martha Turnbull’s diaries....” Her voice trailed away.
    Smaller scale indeed , Charlotte thought, vaguely recalling an article she’d read in the Times-Picayune about the attempt to renovate the gardens of the St. Francisville plantation. What she remembered most about the article was the scope of the project. The original gardens were begun in the 1830s by Rosedown founder Martha Turnbull, and there were no less than twenty-eight acres of gardens that would take years to restore to their original splendor.
    After a moment, Patsy shrugged. “Oh, well. For now I’ll just have to make do with my pond. At least I’ll finally have a place to showcase my collection.”
    For as long as Charlotte had known Patsy, the younger woman had been obsessed with acquiring artifacts, Italian marble statues