Silence, the in-church type.
My cheeks burned, as did my thighs from the stairs. Not only did Nonna’s friends not know she was in town, they had no idea she’d been seeing a man.
Rapid-fire Italian followed. Then a Madonna mia! from Santina and a bang, probably the rolling pin.
Another throat clear. “Is this the first time Luigi and Carmela have been alone together?”
I stumbled on a step. If I lied and they found out, my reputation as a good Catholic girl would be ruined, and I’d be subjected to their suspicious stares for life. “Uh, he might’ve driven her to midnight mass after Christmas Eve dinner?”
The silence went Vatican level.
Nonna had been in mourning, dress and all, for over two decades. So the news of her and Luigi wasn’t merely a shock—it was a calamitous event on par with the Great Flood, which meant that her reputation as a pious Catholic widow was on the verge of becoming extinct.
“One moment.”
Sicilian ensued, a sign that the situation was indeed dire.
Unlike Italian, the Sicilian language was virtually indecipherable thanks to its Norman, Greek, and Arabic elements. But I caught two phrases in English that were fairly alarming—"catholic.org” and “prayer request.”
Mary’s throat clear was almost a growl. “Franki, we’re going to make some calls and…take care of an urgent matter. We’ll be in touch.”
She hung up before I could reply, which was just as well because I’d completed my stair climb and was all out of breath.
I entered the lobby, setting off the bell, and let the door slam behind me.
Our research assistant, Standish “The Vassal” Standifer, didn’t react. He was glued to his computer at the desk in the corner.
Veronica breezed in from the hallway that led to our offices wearing an ivory wool pantsuit. “That sounded like one of David’s door slams.”
“He’s not here?”
“He’ll be back from class any minute.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to confront him about taking your nonna’s case, are you?”
“Eventually. But right now I was hoping he’d know where Nonna is.”
“Isn’t she with Luigi?”
I tossed my purse on one of the two facing couches in the middle of the room. “Yes, and they were supposedly going to a steamboat where a guy went missing.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “You mean the Galliano.”
“Does everyone except me know about this boat?”
“I read an article about the disappearance this morning and wondered if the man was related to Luigi. I guess he is?”
“It’s looking that way.” I jerked off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack. “I just hope Nonna and Luigi aren’t missing too. They’re not at my place or at Belleville House, and there’s no sign of them at the boat.”
“Did you call her friends?”
“Yeah, and they were more concerned about her lapsed widowhood. It sounded like they were going to start a national Catholic prayer ring to try to save her.”
Veronica swallowed a smile. “Maybe Luigi took her to see Father John.”
“Bradley’s probably at the old Mortuary Chapel as we speak.” I approached The Vassal’s desk and saw nudie pics on his computer, which explained why he hadn’t pried his lenses from the screen when I came in. “Um, are you looking at porn?”
“Franki.” Veronica scrunched her face into a scowl. “He’s doing research for Glenda.”
The Vassal turned, mouth open, and pushed up his Coke-bottle lensed glasses. Because he was slack-jawed, it was hard to tell whether he was shocked or just breathing. “It’s for her book.”
I blinked at Veronica. “Are you guys messing with me or what?”
“Since we don’t have any big cases at the moment, I told Glenda she could hire him to help with a tell-all she’s writing under her stage name. She’s in my office now. We’re working out how he’ll split his hours.”
The Vassal’s lens-enlarged eyes went wide. “I didn’t know about her life as…Lorraine Lamour.”
The less he knew the better, although the pictures left little for him to discover. “The tell-all can wait to be told. I need you to look up the Galliano steamboat and Nick Pescatore. Finding my nonna is top priority.”
He nodded and turned to the computer.
“Your nonna was at your apartment an hour ago, Miss Franki.” Glenda entered the lobby. She’d replaced the pasties with leopard—just the spots—and the Mae West-style cigarette holder with a Sherlock Holmes-style pipe.
I was relieved about my nonna, but Glenda’s smoking equipment was troubling. I shot a side-glower at Veronica. “She’s not consulting on another investigation, is she?”
“This is my writing pipe, sugar.” She took a puff, and the tobacco smelled like strip club. “I don’t know if Miss Ronnie told you, but after I saw my breasts on the house this morning, it stirred something in my chest. I felt a deep need to share my story with the public. I just wish I could think of a worthy title.”
Debbie Does Doberge came to mind. “We can brainstorm book names later. Did my nonna tell you where she was going?”
“Oh, I kept my distance, Miss Franki.” She strutted to the couch and stretched out. “I saw her and Luigi from my living room window. They dropped off a trunk and then left in his Lambo.”
“Wait. What?”
“His Lamborghini, sugar. He’s got a green one, the color of money.”
Stunned, I sunk onto the couch beside her. “But he’s eighty and sells produce. If anything, he should have a green Ford Fiesta.”
Veronica sat on the opposite couch. “He’s the owner and CEO of Little Palermo Produce. It’s not Dole or Sunkist, but it’s close.”
My mom must not have known about Luigi’s net worth. If she had, she would’ve ditched my dad and our family deli and married him herself.
“It’s hard to believe he started out selling vegetables from a cart like your grandparents.”
“And seriously deflating. If he has that much money, why does he live at Belleville House? I mean, it’s in the French Quarter, which is a plus, but it’s really rundown.”
She shrugged. “My guess is companionship. Or maybe he’s frugal when it comes to living expenses.”
Glenda puffed her pipe. “Maybe Luigi will get a new place now that he’s hooking up with your nonna. He’ll need a man den to tame that Sicilian tigress.”
Man den? Sicilian tigress? Pains punctured my stomach, as though Glenda’s ten-inch glitter leopard heels strutted on it.
“Are you all right, Miss Franki? You look as green as Luigi’s Lambo.”
“Could we not have this conversation?”
“About your nonna’s sex life?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
Veronica looked at her nails. “Well, I’m happy that Carmela found someone. This morning she mentioned that your nonnu has been gone for twenty-two years. That’s a long time to be alone.”
Glenda puffed her pipe. “And a damn long time to go without. I hadn’t even been alive for twenty-two years the first time I got me some.”
I bolted from the couch. “How are you coming over there, Vassal?”
“Very well, thank you.”
I rolled my eyes and approached his desk. “No, I mean, what have you found out?”
“The Galliano has a website, and it’s due to begin operation as a gambling cruise boat in a few days.” He clicked to a Wikipedia page. “This says it was built in Pittsburgh in 1915, which makes it one of the oldest steamboats in the United States. Also, there was a fire onboard in 1922 that killed a crewman and a female passenger. Not only that, in 1934 a sailor fell into the paddlewheel. He was propelled into the stern and pushed underwater. The weird thing is that they never found his body.”
“So the Galliano has a dark present and past.” I pulled up a chair and took a seat beside him. “What about Nick Pescatore?”
He clicked to the
Times-Picayune. “Besides the fact that he’s missing, all I could find was that he’s thirty-five and from Slidell.”
“Try looking up the captain, Rex Vandergrift.”
Glenda slapped her thigh. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s sugar mama.”
I stared at her over my shoulder. “Let me guess. He was one of your VIP-room regulars at Madame Moiselle’s.”
“Oh, Rex wasn’t local, Miss Franki. The last I knew, he lived about an hour and a half from here in Morgan City. But he used to drive into New Orleans for poker tournaments at Harrah’s, and if lady luck smiled on him at the casino, Lorraine Lamour smiled on him at the club.”
On him? I assumed she was talking about a lap dance. “Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“I haven’t seen him in ten, maybe fifteen years. He had some bad business back home that cost him his seafood company and his crown.”
Veronica tilted her head. “His crown?”
“It wasn’t official, Miss Ronnie, but everybody thought he had a lock on being King of the Louisiana Shrimp & Petroleum Festival.”
The state was famous for unusual festivals, but that one was just wrong. “What kind of bad business?”
“Nothing was ever proven, mind you,”—she pointed her pipe at me—“but old Rex was accused of murder.”
A steamboat whistle went off in my head, and I started like I had before I fell into the river. “If Nonna doesn’t turn up in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to the police.”
3
“Your nonna has only been missing for a few hours.” Veronica leaned against the doorjamb of my office. “It’s too soon to call the police.”
“The captain murdered someone, Veronica.” I sat forward in my desk chair and picked up my cell phone.
“Standish says it was his business partner, not a little old woman like your nonna. And you know as well as I do that the New Orleans PD won’t be able to do anything if you call them now.”
I scrolled through my phone contacts. “There’s a certain Irish detective who would.”
“Franki, you can’t call Wesley Sullivan.”
“Why not?” I attempted an innocent face even though I knew the guilty answer. “He knows Nonna, and he doesn’t always play by police rules.”
Her chin lowered. “The detective doesn’t play by any rules. He proved that when he kissed you on Halloween in front of Bradley and then confessed that he was married.”
“And how many times have I said that he’s descended from one of the snakes Saint Patrick drove out of Ireland?”
“Then why would you call him?”
“Because he’s exactly the kind of guy you need to locate a missing person. So I would expect Bradley to put any lingering jealousy aside in the interests of finding Nonna.”
She crossed her arms. “For everyone’s sake, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Me too.” I wanted to find my nonna, and Veronica was right—any contact with Sullivan would give him an opportunity to slither between Bradley and me and try to swallow our relationship whole.
The phone vibrated in my hand, dissolving a mental image of Sullivan flicking his forked tongue. “It’s Bradley. Maybe he’s found her.” I tapped answer. “Hey, any luck at the church?”
“Father John hasn’t seen her, so I decided to come to the Galliano and have a look for myself.”
I cast Veronica a dark look and shook my head. “I take it she and Luigi aren’t there, either.”
“No one is. I talked to a guy at the ticket pavilion that handles the boat’s bookings, and he said the maiden cruise isn’t until this weekend.”
“Which company is that? Gray Line?”
“No, Where Dat Tours.”
I knew it well because of a murder I’d investigated in October involving one of the company’s vampire tours. “Was the guy named Marv, by any chance?”
“I didn’t catch his name because he said it through a mouthful of po’ boy.”
“That’s him.” I’d never seen Marv not eating something fried and covered in sauce or gravy. “Did you ask him about Nick Pescatore?”
“I didn’t think to do that.”
I stifled a How could you not think of such an obvious question?
“But Marv did say that apart from an employee meeting a few days ago, the only person he’s seen at the boat was a drunk bag lady who looked like she’d fallen into the river.”
My chin jerked into my neck. Drunk?
A beep interrupted the line, and I looked at the display. Santina Messina.
“Bradley, I need to take this call. It’s one of Nonna’s friends.”
“Do you want me to ask Marv about Nick Pescatore?”
“No, I’ll take it from here. Thank you so much for doing all of this.”
“You know I’d do anything for you and your family.” His voice was soft, and deep. “I love—”
Another beep busted in, and the lobby bell got in on the mood-killing action.
Veronica went down the hallway.
“I love you too,” I said, wondering whether he’d said you or something less romantic like you guys. Annoyed, I switched to the waiting call. “Hello, Mary?”
“Franki, baby! It’s Bruno. I hear you called my house.”
I gritted my teeth. It figured that Santina’s son had been the one to cut off Bradley. The guy wouldn’t get lost, as his mother well knew, because his house was actually hers, and he’d been living in it for forty-two years. “Uh, yeah. I called about my nonna. She’s missing.”
“Yeah, that’s a bummer,” he said, upbeat. “Anyway, are you available for dinner tonight? Mamma’s cooking scacciata.”
The name of the stuffed Sicilian flat bread meant both beaten down and driven away, the two things I wanted to see happen to Bruno. “First of all, I’m not going anywhere until I find my nonna. And second, why don’t you give it up? I’m staying with Bradley.”
“Even if he doesn’t propose before St. Joseph’s Day?”
The low blow hit my chest like a lemon from a T-shirt cannon. Bruno had been in the church when Nonna had the lemons shot at me, so he understood the gravity of the approaching feast day. “If you weren’t such a mammone, I’d say you were a bigger snake than Sullivan.”
“Who’s he?” he asked, ignoring the fact that I’d called him a mamma’s boy in Italian. “You seeing guys on the side?”
The hope in his tone prompted me to hang up. Bruno had been pestering me for two years, and one way or another I needed to see to it that he was scacciata for good.
Veronica rushed into the room, beaming. “Your nonna is here.”
I leapt from my chair, ready to unload my stress on her like I’d learned from my mother.
She blocked my path. “She’s with Luigi, so you don’t want to embarrass her.”
I pulled down my sweater and pulled myself together. “All right. But how do they seem? Did they mention Nick Pescatore?”
“Not a word. I assume they’re waiting to talk to you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is Nonna wearing her black mourning dress?”
She hesitated. “It’s gray.”
“Dark gray, like at Christmas?”
“More medium?”
I recoiled. “What the hell is going on here? Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“Think of it this way—any shade of gray is a neutral color.”
“Not for an elderly Sicilian widow.” I flailed my arms. “She might as well be wearing scarlet.”
She scratched a brow. “Why don’t we focus on the Galliano issue since it’s the most pressing?”
“Fine. But please tell me Glenda’s not still out there in her leopard spots.”
Veronica took me by the shoulders and led me to the doorway. “She voluntarily put on my old duster cardigan when your nonna came in.”
Bewildered, I headed down the hall. Glenda was dressed respectably, Nonna was dressed scandalously, and I was dressed bag ladily. What was happening to the world?
>
I stopped just before the lobby and motioned for Veronica to stay back so that I could spy on Nonna and Luigi.
They sat stiffly on a couch and stared straight ahead exactly as they’d done on Christmas Eve. The scene was like a TV comedy sketch, and their appearance didn’t help. With her short white curls and tight grip on her handbag, Nonna resembled Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls. And if Luigi had a pair of round glasses and a cigar to go with his suit and bowtie, he could have passed for an Italian George Burns—especially his ears, which were almost as big as hands. But his voice was regular George Burns, raspy from years of cigar smoking.
I marched over to Nonna. “I’ve been freaking out with worry.”
“Why? I can-a take-a care of myself.”
“You could’ve called.”
“I had-a some things to do.”
“Uh-huh.” Sarcasm oozed from my tone like the ricotta from Nonna’s cannoli. “And it was important stuff, like hiring David, my own coworker, to investigate me.”
“I can-a take-a care of you too.” She lifted the handbag from her lap, and I took a step back. It was well known in the family that she had some kind of weight in that thing.
I looked from her to Luigi, who sported a new hearing aid the size of a car motor and dark rings around his eyes the size of tires. “Will one of you please explain what’s going on?”
Nonna gave a nod. “Luigi’s got a problema. It’s-a personal.”
Glenda rose from The Vassal’s desk, pulling Veronica’s cardigan around her like a bedsheet. “If it’s sexual, honey, you’ve come to the right place. Psychology was one of my majors at Tulane.”
Luigi’s hearing aid dropped to the floor.
And my jaw dropped to my chest. “You went to college?”
“I got a degree in Finance too, Miss Franki. I worked my way through school while I was stripping.”
So that wasn’t just a line that strippers used. “You have two degrees? But…why didn’t you get a job?”
She blinked. “I went to school to increase my stripping revenue at Madame Moiselle’s, sugar. A big part of stripping is counseling your clients. And then you’ve got to know how to manage the money. I’ll talk about all of that in my memoirs.”
Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Page 3