I sucked it up and got out of the car.
Glenda held a Mae West–style cigarette holder in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. Unlike me, she had no qualms about imbibing in the morning because day drinking was practically a custom among native New Orleanians. “You look like you crawled from the swamp, Miss Franki.”
She was one to talk in her alligator stripper shoes. “Close. The river.” I gestured toward the boob decoration. “I take it those are for Mardi Gras?”
“That was the original plan, sugar, but I might like to keep them up. Carnie made them for me.”
The mere mention of her annoying drag queen friend, Carnie Vaul, irritated me. And I silently thanked the gods—or the goddesses, as it were—that the carnival queen was on a world tour with RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Glenda pulled aside her long, platinum locks and raised her chest. “She modeled them after mine.”
I’d thought they were hanging low. I walked to my front door and—case in point—had to duck to avoid hitting my head on one. “Well, before you make any decisions, my nonna’s in town for a surprise visit.”
Glenda sashay-ran up the stairs, and I smirked as I inserted my key into the lock. She and my nonna were engaged in an ongoing skirmish over clothing. My nonna covered her with bib aprons, and Glenda chafed at the so-called “straitjackets.”
I opened the door, and my cairn terrier, Napoleon, trotted out and hiked his leg on my front tire.
“Sometimes I think you’re really a rat terrier.”
He returned to the entryway and sniffed my leg. His tail lowered, and he bolted beneath the velvet zebra-print chaise lounge.
“Make that a bull terrier because I don’t smell that bad.”
I shut the door and kicked off my wet loafers and glanced around the apartment, looking for signs of old-world Sicily among the bordello chic décor. But it didn’t look like my nonna had been there, which was weird because it wasn’t like her to waste time taking over.
I went through the living room to the kitchen and deposited my hobo bag in the sink. Then I headed for the bathroom and called my mom on speaker. I put my cracked phone on the red Louis XVI vanity and stripped off my turtleneck.
The line rang a couple of times, and then I heard the sounds of a car in motion and Bing Crosby’s “Deck the Halls.”
“Marvelous day, isn’t it, dear?” My mother’s typically shrill voice was as joyful as the song.
I pulled a Grinch pucker in the oval-shaped mirror for two reasons. First, she was on her way home to Houston without my nonna, i.e., her live-in mother-in-law. And second, she hadn’t stopped listening to Christmas music since Nonna, a diehard widow, had invited a man to our holiday dinner. “Mom, could you quit with the carols?”
The fa-la-la-la-laing stopped. “If this is about your nonna, I don’t want to hear it.”
I wriggled, incensed, from my wet jeans. “Uh, an earful is the least you can expect. You seem to have started a tradition of unloading family members on me, and I want it to stop.”
“It was an impromptu trip, Francesca. Luigi Pescatore called last night and asked her to come.”
Nonna’s Christmas dinner date?
“And with any luck,” her tone had gone tawdry, “she’ll stay with him at the retirement home.”
I sunk onto the clawfoot tub, and so did my stomach. Nonna and Luigi were both in their eighties, so the thought of them together was unsettling. And I wasn’t the only one in the family who felt that way. “Dad didn’t seem too happy about his elderly mother dating. Does he know you brought her to see him?”
The call ended.
It would be easy to think the line had dropped since my mother was on the road, but I knew her better than that. She’d hung up because I’d caught her keeping my dad in the dark.
I tapped the number again and watched the display until she answered. “Mom—”
“You know that graveyard across the street from your house?” The Christmas joy had left her tone, and it had turned Halloween hell.
“What about it?”
“You screw this up for me, and I’ll put you in it, capisci?”
I understood. Normally, I would’ve thought she was kidding. But from the second Luigi entered the scene, a change had come over my mother. She’d gotten an unexpected shot at a mother-in-law-free life, and she was willing to do anything to get it, including sacrificing her daughter.
“That woman has been in my house for twenty-two years, ever since your nonnu died. You can’t even begin to fathom what that’s been like.”
Oh, I could—Stephen King-level horror. But my mother’s voice was as tight as a violin string, so it was best to agree with her. “No, I can’t. But Luigi isn’t the only reason she came here, and you know that because you dropped her off at Private Chicks so she could have me investigated—for being an old maid.”
“That was for your own good, Francesca. The days are ticking down to your thirty-first birthday, not to mention the end of the lemon tradition. And both are stark reminders that your biological time clock is ticking down too.”
I’d heard of mothers who made everything better, but mine had an uncanny ability not only to make things worse, but also to tie all of my problems to my aging reproductive system. “Obviously, I can’t expect your help with the zitella case, so at least tell me where nonna is.”
“With Luigi.” She squealed.
And I half-expected her to break into a chorus of “Joy to the World.”
“He was waiting for her at Private Chicks with a beautiful basket of garlic and chili peppers from his produce company.” She gave a wistful sigh. “So romantic, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t. In some cultures his gift would be used to ward off vampires and werewolves. “I’d rather not comment.”
“Because you’re hard-hearted like your father, which is part of your problem in relationships.”
“That and my old eggs,” I muttered.
“You’re breaking up, dear. What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I moved to the toilet. It seemed more appropriate somehow.
“Anyway, as I was leaving, I heard Luigi mention something about a steamboat.”
The whistleblower came to mind, as did my need for a shower. I turned on the water to let it warm up. “He must be taking her on the Natchez for a jazz cruise.”
“No, it was another boat. The Galliano.”
For a moment, I wondered whether my nonna had pulled the whistle that made me fall into the river, but I dismissed the idea. If she’d done it, she would’ve been on deck pointing out my curves to eligible sailors when I’d climbed from the water. “Mom, I saw the Galliano today, and I don’t think it’s in operation.”
“Well, I’m sure Luigi knows what he’s doing. He’s extremely capable for a man his age, and quite the catch.”
I wrinkled my lips. Some people would have said the very same thing about the catfish that had leapt from my purse.
“I just pulled into Steamboat Bill’s to get some gumbo for your father, so I’ll let you go. But remember what I said about that cemetery.” Her Halloween tone had returned. “Don’t do anything to interfere with your nonna and Luigi, or else.”
The line went dead.
I climbed into the tub and closed the shower curtain, slightly seasick from the conversation. It wasn’t my mother’s threat or my nonna’s relationship with Luigi that made me queasy—at least, not in that instant. The issue was the recurring steamboat theme, because it seemed like an omen.
And as I rinsed off the dregs of the Mississippi River, I couldn’t wash away the feeling that I would have another ill-fated encounter with the Galliano.
2
The XXXL-sized security guard seated at the door of Mimi’s in the Marigny bar flashed a sans-front-teeth smile. “May I tempt you with a piece? It’s from Debbie Does Doberge.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it sounded pornographic. I hefted my brow to signal that an explanation was w
arranted.
He chuckled and shifted his girth, revealing a couple of bakery boxes on a table beside him. “Doberge cake is a N’awlins tradition. If you don’t want to try it, I’ve got some salty balls.”
My brows bolted upright. The manager should not have let a security guard describe the food. “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances with the Doberge. What’s the occasion?”
He opened a box that contained a half-eaten chocolate fondant–covered cake with Willie! in blue icing. “I was born sixty-three years ago today, so the bar is treating everyone to dessert.”
“What a great thing to do. Happy birthday.”
“All birthdays are happy, chère.”
Not if you had a nonna who counted them and prayed over them like rosary beads.
He handed me a plate with a huge slice that had six layers of some sort of yellow filling. “Pass a good time.”
The French-inspired phrase made me smile. “I will now that I have cake.”
I went inside to find my lunch date. If there were such a thing as a cute dive bar, Mimi’s in the Marigny was it. The “cute” came from the vintage fireplace, distressed brick walls, and arched windows decorated with Christmas lights, and the “dive” came from the cash-only policy, pool table, and women’s restroom with two stall-less toilets. But the décor wasn’t what had garnered Bradley’s and my affection. It was the gourmet Spanish tapas and artisanal cocktails.
Bradley wasn’t at the bar, so I headed to the second-floor dining area. As I climbed each step, it felt like a countdown to something ominous. I blamed the ticking time bomb-themed call with my mom and the plate of cake in my hand, which was yet another reminder that my birthday approached, as did the end of the lemon tradition.
Did Bradley have anything planned for either event? I didn’t want to ask because that would make me seem desperate for a marriage proposal—and I wasn’t. But after the events of the morning, I was pretty darn desperate to stop my nonna’s meddling.
I entered the dining room and spotted Bradley holding a newspaper at a two-top next to a window. The sight of his strong profile made my stomach flutter, and his fitted black sweater and tight gray chinos only added to the sexy picture.
Bradley’s newspaper was still raised as I slid into my chair. So instead of seeing him, I was greeted with the mug shot of a man with a smile as toothless as Willie’s and the headline Man Stabs Wife at Her Birthday Party.
Zitella-hood was looking pretty good.
Bradley lowered the paper, and his bright blue eyes widened. “Are you okay, babe? You look pale.”
“I’m just cold and annoyed that I had to pay a hundred bucks to replace a cracked phone display.”
“Here.” He reached behind his chair. “Take my jacket.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
He leaned forward and gave me a soft, slow kiss that was definitely inner-glow inducing. Then he pulled back and rubbed my cheek. “I ordered us some starter tapas—the grilled steak, the duck poutine, and the escargot.”
I saw an opportunity. “Fancy. Are we celebrating something?”
“Should we be?”
That attempt fell flat. “It is almost March.”
His eyes twinkled. “My favorite day of the year is coming up.”
Excitement turned the inner glow from his kiss into a crackling fire. “And what day is that?”
He blinked. “Mardi Gras. What else?”
An icy cold washed over me like I’d fallen back into the river.
His gaze lowered to the menu beside his beer bottle. “Oh yeah, I also ordered the ‘Trust Me.’”
He was referring to Mimi’s mystery tapas, but the name was ironic since I was no longer sure I could trust him to remember my birthday.
I reached for my fork and cut a huge bite of Willie’s cake, thinking that would jog his memory.
“I didn’t know you liked Doberge.”
“I’ve never had it, but it’s rude not to celebrate someone’s birthday.” I shot him a pointed stare and shoved the bite into my mouth.
His upper lip curled. “I’m not a fan of the filling. Anything with lemon is a turnoff for me.”
The lemon custard curdled on my tongue. He never told me he didn’t like lemon. Was that a veiled message about the lemon tradition?
He chuckled. “Ruth Walker used to eat a piece of lemon Doberge every Friday. She insisted it was healthy and said it was a type of fruitcake.”
Bradley’s ex-assistant was a fruitcake herself with an epic ability for denial.
“I wonder if they kept her on at Pontchartrain Bank after I left.”
“Let’s hope.” Ruth had once threatened to make my life hell if I cost her the job at the bank, and since Bradley had resigned because of me, I feared she’d make good on it.
He swallowed a sip of beer. “Speaking of work, any new cases?”
After his lemon comment, I would rather have eaten Willie’s salty balls than tell him Nonna was having me investigated for being a zitella. “Not for me.” I put down my fork and looked him in the eyes. “But in other news, my nonna’s in town.”
“What’s the occasion?”
That was what I’d asked Willie, who was so beloved that even his manager remembered his birthday. “Meddling, for starters.” I looked out the window, irritated. “And according to my mother, she’s going for a ride on a steamboat called the Galliano.”
“The Galliano’s in New Orleans?”
My gaze met his. “You know about it?”
“I helped the captain, Rex Vandergrift, get a loan to buy it right before I resigned from the bank. But the boat was in St. Louis, so I thought the plan was to sail it in Missouri, like Mark Twain.”
“What does Mark Twain have to do with this?”
“The captain is a huge fan. He told me all about how Twain was a steamboat pilot in Missouri before hitting it big as a writer.” He laughed and spun his beer on its coaster. “Just for kicks, I googled a picture of Twain when he was signing the loan papers, and he even looks like him. Same shock of white hair, crazy eyebrows, and bushy mustache.”
“How old is the captain?”
“In his seventies, I’d imagine. Why?”
“Because Luigi Pescatore invited Nonna on the boat, so I was wondering if he knows the guy.”
The humor left his eyes. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“What?”
“That your nonna’s boyfriend is named Pescatore.”
I held up my hand. “Slow down on the ‘boyfriend’ label, Bradley Hartmann. My nonna just reconnected with Luigi.”
“Six months ago during Halloween. Then she brought him to Christmas Eve dinner and mass.”
So he remembers Halloween and Christmas, but not my birthday. Interesting. “Why’s his last name relevant?”
He pushed the newspaper toward me. “I haven’t read it, but there’s an article on page two about a missing man named Nick Pescatore.”
My chest tightened. From what my nonna had told me, the name Pescatore wasn’t common in Italy, much less in New Orleans. I scanned the article, and my anxiety blasted to steamboat whistle level. “This isn’t happening.”
“What? Is Nick related to Luigi?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know.” I drained my sangria and rose from the chair. “I’ve gotta go.”
Bradley grasped my hand. “Franki, what’s going on?”
“Nick Pescatore was last seen on the Galliano.”
After looking for Nonna and Luigi at the Galliano and my apartment, I pulled into the Private Chicks parking lot and shut off the engine. Then I tapped Bradley’s number on my pricey new phone display to find out whether he’d located them.
“Hey, babe,” he answered. “Any luck?”
“No, you?”
“I’m at Belleville House, and they’re not here.”
If they weren’t at Luigi’s apartment at the retirement home, there was only one place left to check. “I just got to the office, and I’m going to start ca
lling her friends. Do you mind going to the old Mortuary Chapel? Since Nick is missing, Nonna might’ve taken Luigi there to talk to Father John.”
“I’m on my way.” He closed the call.
“When will Nonna get a cell phone?” I grumbled as I climbed from the car and slammed the door. I tapped Santina’s number and began the three-flight climb to the office. With each step I mentally uttered please. Usually, it was a plea for the building’s owner, one Veronica Maggio, to have an elevator installed, but in that instance it had a new, dual meaning—please let Nonna be at Santina’s, and please don’t let Santina’s way-too-old-to-live-at-home son, Bruno, pick up.
“Messina residence,” a woman answered.
I breathed an already winded sigh of relief. “Hi, this is Franki Amato, Carmela Montalbano’s granddaughter—”
“Franki, it’s Mary.”
Nonna had a lot of nonna friends in New Orleans, so it was hard to keep track of them. “Oh, right. Hello.”
“Santina is rolling out pasta dough, so I answered on her behalf. How are you?”
“Honestly, I’m worried because I can’t find my nonna.”
“Oh? Carmela’s in town?”
I gripped the railing. Nonna hadn’t informed her friends of her trip, which in the Italian community was a serious slight. “Yyyes, but my mom just dropped her off this morning.”
“Hm. One moment.”
I listened as she relayed the gist of the call in terse Italian to Santina, who didn’t speak English, and with every word the sounds of a rolling pin become more audible.
Mary cleared her throat. “Franki, Santina hasn’t heard from her either, and we’re surprised to say the least.”
“Like I said, she’s only been here for a few hours.”
“But Carmela doesn’t drive, so how would she leave your apartment?”
We both knew that a taxi was out of the question since my nonna thought all strangers were criminals. “Actually, she wasn’t at my apartment. She’s with Luigi Pescatore.”
Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Page 2