I pointed but then snatched my finger back. “Where did those come from?”
She waved a hand with inch-long white nails. “Don’t worry about where I got ’em.” Her voice was low—and local. “Just don’t touch.”
“I won’t.” I almost walked, but Sullivan’s belly laugh echoed in my head, and my gut burned at the memory. I returned to the stool, determined to solve Nick’s murder.
The woman sized me up with big brown eyes that bugged slightly from their sockets. She pursed her chubby lips, making her cheeks even chubbier. “I’m Mama Esther. A throw costs twenty dollars.”
I cocked my head. “You mean, a blanket?”
Her cheeks went flat, like her gaze. “I meant a reading.”
“Do you do cards?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s so old-fashioned.”
“Sorry. I’m not up on the latest fortune-telling techniques.”
She hmphed and untied the string. “We stopped saying ‘fortune-telling’ in the eighties. It’s divining.”
I gave her a hard stare. “Whatever you call it, that’s not what I’m here for.”
Mama Esther gathered the bones in her left hand and placed a shell on top. She waved her right hand over the items and spoke what sounded like a cross between French and mumbo jumbo. She transferred the bones and shell to the other hand and repeated the gesture. Then she shook them and threw them on the table. She studied them for a moment. “This is not a good throw for you.”
My stare got harder. “Awesome, because I just said I wasn’t here for that.”
“Fine wit’ me.” She tightened the knot on her headscarf. “You’re not ready to hear this, anyway.”
I knew she was as fake as the gibberish she spoke, but as with all things mystic, I had a shadow of a doubt.
She reached to scoop up the bones, and I blocked her hand. “Hang on.”
“I said, ‘don’t touch.’”
“Yeah, those bones, not your bones. Now what do they say?”
“No ma’am. You’re confrontational, and this throw is heavy.”
“What do you mean?” My hypochondria kicked in. “Is it my health?” I clutched my stomach, which had developed an ache. “Oh, God. Bradley’s going to propose, but I’m dying. Or wait. I’m dying, and he’s not going to propose.”
Mama Esther looked at the next table, where a bearded hipster in a black hat and beige scarf sat with legs crossed sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. “I told you I get all the damn crazies.”
My lips pursed. I was willing to admit that I’d gotten carried away, but she was the one who threw bones for a living. “I’m totally sane, and I didn’t come for a divining. I have a question about Haitian vodou and playing card readings.”
Her head snapped back so hard the knot on her headscarf shook. “Are you racial profiling me?”
Heat crept up my neck. “No, it’s just that your headscarf, shells, and bones make you look more like you’d know about voodoo than he does.”
The hipster held up a copy of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. “Hey, I can read and learn, all right? Or do you think I’m dumb because I’m a tarot card reader?”
Honestly, I thought he was a nerd, but under the circumstances I wasn’t going to admit to social profiling. I raised my hands—but folded my fingers. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend either of you. I just need to know what the queen of spades means.”
Mama Esther’s nostrils flared. “It means Erzulie D’en Tort is angry with you, which don’t surprise me none.”
The hipster leaned in. “It’s also a porn term.”
For some reason, I thought of Willie’s Debbie Does Doberge cake. Then I sat back and stared at them. “Did you see what just happened there?”
Mama Esther crossed her arms against her ample bosom. “Maybe I do know about Haitian vodou, but shame on you for assuming. Now what did you do to rile Erzulie—racial profile her?”
“The card has nothing to do with me. A friend of mine got it.”
She gave a skeptical tuh. “That’s what they all say.”
The hipster shook his head. “A tired cliché.”
I was tired—of the two of them. “I’m telling you the truth, so is there anything else you can tell me?” I glared at the hipster. “And I don’t want a description of the porn meaning.”
Mama Esther adjusted her headscarf. “Not without knowing the situation. And for that I’d need the person who was dealt the card, so the bones could read their spirit.”
“That won’t be possible.”
The hipster swallowed a sip of tea. “If it helps, in cartomancy spades correspond to tarot’s suit of swords, which is the suit of warriors and symbolizes things like courage, aggression, and conflict.”
“What about the queen?”
“The queen of spades, the queen of swords, Erzulie—same difference. She’s a cold, lonely woman. And hostile. She’s out to hurt you, and she’ll lie to you just to watch what happens.” He tightened his scarf, as though warding off a chill. “She hasn’t shown up in one of my readings in a while, but someone asked me about her last night.”
My stool wobbled. The skater? I needed to know, but I had to formulate my description carefully, so the huckster and the hipster didn’t accuse me of some kind of profiling. “Was she a woman in a wig on roller skates?”
His eyes popped. “Wow, are you psychic?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t have come here.” I shot Mama Esther a look as dry as her bones. Then I rose and threw a twenty on the table.
She frowned at it like she’d done to my bone throw. “After you racial-profiled me, I don’t even get a tip?”
Reluctantly, I tossed in a five even though she’d psychologically profiled me—unfavorably. I handed the hipster a ten.
“Oh, thanks.” He tipped his hat. “I’ve got one last tip for your friend—tell him or her that the cards don’t lie.”
“I’ll pass that along.” I turned to walk the short distance to Bourbon Street, pondering the hipster-turned-tipster’s words.
The only thing the cards said to me was that Nick’s death had to do with gambling, and not vodou or porn—although I planned to look that up in private. And if my suspicion was correct, then my bet was on Captain Vandergrift. He seemed decent enough, but as far as I knew, he was the only one on the ship who’d been accused of murder.
I turned onto Bourbon, and the street was unusually packed. It was Mardi Gras season, so I figured the crowd was there to see one of the many marching bands, walking groups, or dance troupes pass through. I weaved my way through the bodies to the Tropical Isle bar, holding my nose from the smell of BO, booze, and vomit.
The Dancing Hand Grenade stood in the doorway, churning his arms at his sides like the dancing gopher in Caddyshack. He scanned the crowd, and our eyes met—well, his big fake blue eyes met my brown ones. He stopped churning, raised two puffy white-gloved fingers in a V sign, and did the I’ve-got-my-eyes-on-you gesture. Then he swiped the V sign across each eye like John Travolta and Uma Thurman’s dance from Pulp Fiction.
There was nothing that grenade couldn’t turn into a dance move.
I marched up to him and scoured his costume for eye holes. I couldn’t find them, so I was forced to look him in his fake eyes, which was awkward. And odd. “We need to have a chat about the woman on roller skates you pointed me out to the other day. She’s been anticipating my every move, and I want to know why.”
He did a lip-locking gesture and topped it off with a tap step and arm flair.
Naturally.
“Look, this isn’t a dance-off, so why don’t you take off your costume so we can discuss this?”
He continued with the lip-locking combo and thrust his hip at me, as though he wanted to knock me flat on the street.
I was already on edge because of Sullivan’s threat and the mob of partiers swarming around me. So, I lunged at him—and tried to pull off his head. I wrested and yanked, and he made a grab for my waist. F
ortunately, he was too big around to get both hands on me.
“Fight! Fight!” a guy chanted.
“Get her, Grenade!” a woman yelled.
I ignored the incitement. Because I’d come to the conclusion that the Dancing Hand Grenade costume didn’t have a headpiece. Which was strange. And unsettling.
A trumpet blasted the opening notes of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and the crowd let out a cheer. I figured a marching band was coming up the street, but I didn’t loosen my grip on the grenade.
A car horn honked behind me.
Startled, I let him go and turned around. I was blocking a black-and-gold convertible packed with uniformed New Orleans Saints football players and a dance troupe dressed in team colors. They wore teased black-and-gold wigs, matching minidresses, and shiny gold go-go boots. Two of them carried a sign that read The Geaux-Geaux Dancers.
I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Tropical Isle entrance.
The Dancing Hand Grenade saw me and lunged for a flier on the door. His fat fingers dislodged it, and he crumpled it between his huge hands.
I tried to snatch it, but he hooked me with one of his clown shoes. I fell flat onto Bourbon—right as the Geaux-Geaux Dancers began to strut to a recording of “Our Lips are Sealed” by the Go-Go’s.
The irony of the song choice wasn’t lost on me as I curled into a fetal position, not only to avoid getting trampled by the go-go-booted squadron, but also to avoid French Quarter street germs.
A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me to safety.
One of the football players had come to my rescue.
“You’re a saint like your team mascot,” I shouted above the music.
He smiled and made his way back to the convertible, and I scanned the crowd for the Dancing Hand Grenade, which was like looking for a big green knitting needle in a haystack. I spotted him waddling down the street and gritted my teeth. Only in The Big Easy could a Humpty-Dumpty drink mascot evade me.
“Here you go, champ.” A Bacchus in plastic leaves and purple grapes gave me a crumpled sheet of paper. “Your Hand Grenade sparring partner dropped this.”
I unfolded the flier. It was an advertisement for the debut of the “Roulergirls” at an upcoming Mardi Gras parade. The name was a play on rollergirls that had been inspired by the city’s famous phrase Laissez les bons temps rouler, Cajun French for Let the good times roll. And I understood why the Dancing Hand Grenade hadn’t wanted me to see the announcement for the roller-skating troupe.
The wigged woman on skates was front and center on the flier.
At six p.m., I pulled onto Maple Street and searched for a parking place amid the FIATs, my Mom’s Ford Taurus, Bradley’s Mercedes, and Luigi’s Lamborghini. To my grim dismay, I had to park in front of the cemetery.
I climbed from the car, exhausted from a lost night of sleep and a wasted day of searching for the Roulergirls. My side hurt from a muscle I’d pulled wrestling with the damn Hand Grenade. So the last thing I wanted to do was endure the exhausting battle that was my family, not to mention the nonne.
To stave off stress, I pulled out my phone and googled “how to find your inner zen” as I walked to my apartment. An article popped up with a list of steps. Mindfulness, exercise, healthy eating, positive-thinking, and rewarding yourself.
I did the last one well enough to make up for the other four, but I was pretty sure that didn’t count. I settled on a few deep breaths and went inside.
The nonne were decked out in death regalia and rattling away on their rosaries.
I removed my jacket in the entryway, and Bradley exited the kitchen in a black suit appropriate for a funeral or a Milan runway.
His smile was muted to match the occasion. “Hey, babe.”
The rosaries stopped rattling.
He gave me the clumsy cheek peck that one would expect from a man being watched by nine no-nonsense nonne.
The rattling resumed.
“How’s it going?” I whispered.
The corners of his mouth pulled back. “I got a pretty cold welcome.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s because they’re in mourning.”
“I don’t think so.” He cast a furtive glance at the kitchen table, where my mother sat with Luigi. “Your mom offered Mr. Pescatore wine, but I got lemonade. Unsweetened.”
My lips puckered. Bradley was getting the sour treatment, all right.
I looked around for my nonna and saw her in the corner on someone’s cell phone. There were only three people she would be talking to, in order of importance—a priest, my dad, and David.
She caught my gaze and pulled the veil over her face.
David. I did the Dancing Hand Grenade’s eyes-on-you gesture, but without the dance move, and went into the kitchen.
Luigi wasn’t looking too smooth. He had on a white short-sleeved shirt and undershirt with belted pants that came to his ribcage, but his old-man style wasn’t the issue. His hearing aid was crooked, and his nose was so red that he looked more like an Italian W.C. Fields than a George Burns. In a word, he was schnockered.
He pushed a wayward strand of hair over his scalp. “If I hadn’t cut Nicky off, he wouldn’t have gone searching for the gold on the steamboat.” He leaned forward to put his head in his hands and almost fell over. “And none of this would’ve happened.”
“There, there,” my mother said, pushing him upright. “We do our best with these kids”—she paused and zeroed in on me—“but it’s like they’re determined to make mistakes.”
Scowling at her wasn’t good enough. I pulled down my lower eyelid, shooting her the evil eye.
She emptied a Marsala bottle into Luigi’s glass. “Why don’t you have one of Carmela’s meatballs with your wine? When it comes to cooking, she’s…quite a something.”
I narrowed my eyes. My mother was taking a cue from my nonna’s meatballs, which she routinely described as “slick with grease.”
“And have I ever told you what a (cough) woman Carmela is? Yes, she…goes to church, and…keeps a tidy bedroom.”
Apparently, my mother had also taken a cue from a used car salesman, but she wasn’t as convincing in the hawking of the product.
I needed some wine to deal with the spectacle. I opened the cabinet. Empty? I turned to my mother. “You served my wine?”
“Well, I didn’t have time to go to the store, Francesca.” She furrowed her brow. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Yeah, pouring my wine down Luigi’s throat. Annoyed, I slammed the cabinet shut. “I guess it’s a good thing I got that winepress.”
Bradley entered and grimaced like he’d swallowed unsweetened lemonade. “You bought a winepress?”
“It was a gift.” I looked at Luigi, who was absorbed in his thoughts—and his glass. “One I can’t accept.”
“Whaaat?” My mother’s head spun toward me.
“It was a nice gesture, but I don’t make wine. And for the sake of the Pescatores and the Scalinos,”—I lingered on the Mafia clan to drive my point home—“it belongs in Sicily.”
She glanced nervously at Luigi. “Well, if he wants you to have it, Francesca…”
Her reaction supported my earlier theory that she’d sacrifice a kid to get rid of her mother-in-law.
“Besides, dear, it’s rude to refuse an inheritance. Why, if Luigi were to leave me something,” she paused to let that marinate, “I would treasure it.”
And that one confirmed my theory she was a gold digger.
Bradley leaned into my side. “Can I talk to you in private?”
“Please.” I cast a droll look at my mother and led him to my bedroom. As he crossed the threshold, nonne gasped and crossed themselves.
“Che disgrazia!”
“Uno scandalo!”
Nonna rose with the phone still pressed to her ear and shuffled over to me. “I’m-a not-a gonna ask what you’re doing in-a there”—she raised her veil at Bradley—“but it had-a better involve a question.”
I closed the door, went to the closet, and dragged the trunk to the doorway.
Bradley smirked. “What’s in that old thing, your nonna’s dowry?”
Clearly, he hadn’t gotten the gist of her question hint. “It’s the winepress.”
“Ah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Are the Scalinos you mentioned related to Gigi Scalino, the Mafia don?”
I nodded. “The winepress belonged to his father.”
Bradley shoved his hands in his pockets as though he were shoving down a comment. “Does Gigi know you have it?”
“I’m not sure.” I didn’t tell him that I reported to Gigi’s brother on the Galliano, or that I suspected the exterminator of being one of his thugs, because he was already worried enough. “But I’m getting rid of it as soon as I can. It’s just that right now is a delicate time.”
“Yes.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Before you came home, I got a call from Captain Vandergrift.”
I was so stunned that I was tempted to join him on the mattress, but I feared the nonne would send in the Swiss Guard. “Why would the captain call you?”
“He thought I was still with the bank.”
“Did you ask him about Nick’s death?”
“Why would I do that?”
I sunk onto the trunk. Bradley was turning out to be clueless with questions, which didn’t bode well for our future. “Um, because I’m investigating his murder?”
“He was calling to check on his loan. And I didn’t have to bring up Nick because he did it for me.”
My eyes widened. “How so?”
“He’s afraid the investigation might cost him the loan.”
“Could it?”
“Not unless he goes to jail and misses a payment.” He flashed me a look under his lashes. “Which…he might.”
An uneasy sensation settled in my abdomen. “Bradley, what do you know that you’re not telling me?”
“I haven’t said anything about this to Luigi…”
I stood. “Now I’m worried.”
“I am too, Franki.” He rose and put his arms around me. “Because you’re on the steamboat with that maniac.”
“Oh, if you’re talking about his murder charge in Morgan City, Glenda told me all about that.”
Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Page 10