I sucked in a gasp and pointed at her. “You never told me THAT.”
An awful silence settled over the room as an awful realization settled over me.
I, Francesca Lucia Amato, believed in the lemon tradition.
Despite my common sense and solid education, a lifetime of Nonna’s Sicilian home-schooling had implanted crazy superstition seeds in my brain that were sprouting—like my little-old-Italian-lady whiskers.
I looked at the black bundle in my hand. It was fitting that I was going to a memorial, because I had a lot to mourn—the loss of Nick, my beloved Bradley, and all rational thought.
Without a word, I zombie-walked to my bedroom, closed the door, and flopped on my bed. Tears threatened to spill onto my pillow, but I had to pep-talk myself into staying in combat mode. “C’mon, Franki. Hairy chin up. You might talk to yourself like a bag lady, but you could never be a little old Italian lady because”—I wracked my superstition-riddled brain for a reason, and I found one—“you’re five-feet-ten!”
I jumped off the bed and stuffed the black bundle into the waste bin in my bathroom. “Addio, sack and shroud. It’s time to go to your grave in the trash heap at the dump.”
Then I looked in the mirror and ran a dry razor over my chin.
Satisfied that all traces of impending zitellahood had been eradicated, I marched from the bathroom to find a black dress from the current century—or even the one prior—and opened my closet door.
The winepress lay at my feet.
I seethe-stared at the trunk. It represented all the obstacles in my life, except for the wine part. Old-world superstitions passed down like family heirlooms, criminals like the Scalinos who exploited people for profit, and corrupt cops who couldn’t let go of past kisses and case victories.
In a fit of anger, I pulled the trunk from the closet. The hot pink duvet I’d used to cover it got caught under my feet and slid off.
A flash caught my eye.
I couldn’t imagine what would have reflected the light so I crouched to have a look. The antique brass hardware was too scuffed and tarnished to be the culprit.
Curious, I flipped the latches and opened the lid. The winepress had been disassembled except for the wooden cage that held the grapes. I rummaged around pieces of wood, bolts, screws and closed the lid.
And I spotted the source of the flash.
A miniature camera was inside the oversized keyhole.
I didn’t react. I merely rose and searched for a dress.
But as I sifted through the hangers, my arms trembled. Because the exterminator had indeed been an imposter, and I feared the Scalinos were watching my every move.
Luigi stood outside the main doors to Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Chapel in a black suit with a blue carnation on his lapel, greeting friends and colleagues from the grocery business as they arrived for Nick’s service.
I stayed inside the entrance, surveying the people coming in. The small Catholic church was packed, but not only for the memorial. Our Lady of Guadalupe served as a type of sanctuary for the homeless who, after a night on New Orleans’ streets, slept safely in the pews.
Veronica entered in a chic black-and-white Chanel number that clashed with the modest decor and the nonne’s mourning looks. She spotted me and sashayed over. “Hey. Let’s go see if we can squeeze in up front next to your mom and nonna.”
“No, I’m sticking close to the exit.”
She rolled her cornflower blues. “Are you still freaked out that this place used to be a mortuary chapel?”
I scratched my elbow. “That yellow fever epidemic was nothing to joke about, Veronica. But no, I’m not.”
“Well,” she glanced at my arm, “I see you scratching, so your priest phobia must’ve kicked in.”
I looked around for Father John, the head of the clergy, to make sure he hadn’t heard her. “It’s not a phobia, okay? Priests and nuns make me feel guilty, and when I feel guilty, I itch.”
“Uh-huh.”
I cocked my head to one side, frustrated. “I’m staying by the door to see if any of the suspects show up for Nick’s service. Also, my back is bruised, so I don’t want to press it against a hard, wooden pew.”
“Whatever you say.” She gave a wry smile and headed toward the altar.
I moved to a far corner, next to a statue of Saint Expedite. For the third time since moving to New Orleans, I studied the image of the unlikely saint—a Roman centurion who held a cross while stepping on a crow. During my first homicide case, Father John told me that locals had appropriated the Catholic saint for voodoo purposes by asking him to “expedite” requests for favors they’d made to Marie Laveau, a legendary voodoo priestess buried outside in the chapel cemetery.
Was that happening onboard the Galliano? Had a woman Nick wronged appropriated a playing card, the queen of spades, to invoke the wrath of voodoo loa Erzulie D’en Tort?
In light of the drug discovery, it seemed more likely that Nick had been murdered by the Scalinos than by an angry ex-girlfriend. But I couldn’t rule out voodoo. In New Orleans, white and black magic were present in the unlikeliest of places, and Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel was proof.
Father John exited the sacristy, and the nonne, on cue, began their litany of laments.
I turned my attention to the altar.
The church door closed, and I looked to see who’d entered.
A young woman in sunglasses started at the sight of me, and I stared at her dark lenses.
Until my gaze shifted to her brown wig.
The Roulergirl, Goldie, sans skates.
She hit the door with a thwack and ran out.
I took off after her, wishing I hadn’t worn four-inch heels to increase the odds against me becoming a little old Italian lady. I skidded on the slick floor and struggled with the door. Then I got to the sidewalk and went as still as the statue of Saint Expedite.
The Roulergirl was gone, but a man with pock-marked skin and a jagged scar under his eye was shoving Luigi into a limousine.
“Get your thieving hands off me, you dirty hooligan!”
Luigi’s shout snapped me from my shock, and I lunged for the limo.
The man climbed in after him, and the car door slammed.
As I reached for the handle, the car sped away. And I stood gaping in the middle of Rampart Street.
I didn’t get the license plate, but it didn’t matter. Before the car door closed, I’d seen something on the floorboard that told me the identity of Luigi’s kidnapper.
A pair of men’s shoes with white spats.
Gigi “The G-Man” Scalino.
12
The 9-1-1 operator hung up, and yet I kept the phone pressed to my ear. In a daze, I glanced around Rampart Street, trying to think of something, anything I could do to help Luigi. I spotted a historical marker for the church that bore the name The Old Mortuary Chapel, and my superstitious nature flared.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I put away my phone and pointed my index and pinky fingers downward in the scongiuri gesture Nonna taught me to ward off bad luck. For added insurance I gave the marker a kick. But I should’ve kicked myself for not telling Luigi to greet his guests inside the church. Instead, I’d left him alone on the sidewalk where he’d been an easy mark for the Mafia. As a result, I stood alone on that sidewalk in a Mississippi-sized river of regret.
The chapel door opened with a bang, jolting me from my shock. Two men ran out and headed down the street.
Gigi’s thugs?
They climbed into a black car and placed a flashing blue light on the dash.
I took a breath, relieved. The New Orleans PD had placed undercover officers among the mourners. But like me, they’d been unprepared for Luigi’s kidnapping.
I turned and faced the chapel entrance as though confronting the gates of hell. Because an inferno awaited me inside when I informed the guests of the abduction.
The door opened, and my mother appeared in her dark Dickensian wear. Her eyes darted fro
m side to side like they used to do when she suspected my brothers and me of mischief. “What’s happening? Where’s Luigi?”
She’d already lost my future husband. I didn’t know how to tell her she might have lost Nonna’s. “Gigi Scalino…”
Her face aged in an instant, like Miss Havisham’s—or Agnes Frump’s ghost. She spun, threw back her veil, and…
Howled like a wolf?
She kicked off a tulle underskirt and sprinted inside the chapel to the middle of the aisle. She faced the image of the Virgin Mary and spread her arms like Jesus on the cross. “Help me, Our Lady of Guadalupe! Luigi’s been kidnapped by the mob!”
Shouts and wails erupted, and hymnals went flying. People scrambled from the pews and rushed the exit.
I squeezed past frenzied mourners and homeless men and scanned the church for Nonna and Veronica. I couldn’t see them amid the chaos, but I did see my mother.
Face-down in the baptismal font.
“Mom!” I rushed over and pulled her from the vessel.
She sputtered holy water, and her knees gave out. “Just leave me here, Francesca. The water’s so peaceful.”
“If you want peace, try praying like other people.” Despite my half-broken back, I half-dragged her toward a pew. We passed a wreath-shaped funerary arrangement, and she ripped out a handful of chrysanthemums and wrested herself from my grip.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
As though in a trance, she ran to the statue of Saint Expedite and placed the flowers at his sandaled feet.
I put my hands on my cheeks. My mother had made a voodoo offering to a Roman centurion saint.
“Franki!” Veronica rushed down the side aisle. “Did you see what happened? Was it Gigi?”
I gave a grim nod. “Where’s Nonna? Is she all right?”
“She’s in the sacristy with the other nonne, seeking counsel from Father John.”
If I knew my nonna and her friends, they were using the room as a command post to put out an APB in the Sicilian community and call in reinforcements.
Veronica pulled me to a stained-glass window away from the crowd. “Why would the Scalinos take Luigi?”
“I can’t figure it out. I mean, Nick tried to tell Luigi about the drugs with his ‘Galliano gold’ text, but the secret of the gold bars is out. And even if it wasn’t, silencing Luigi wouldn’t eliminate his phone records.”
She winced at the word “silencing,” and I did the same.
Glenda emerged effortlessly from the fray at the door, no doubt due to her decades of strip-club experience and sashayed toward us in an enormous black feather boa and a black mesh dress that let it all hang way out. On the plus side, her shoulders were covered in accordance with Catholic tradition, and her pasties and thong said Censored.
“This is some kind of send-off, sugar. You Catholics are wild, especially your mother.”
I followed her gaze to the altar.
My mother sat spread-eagle on the steps, slugging from a bottle of communion wine.
I’d expected her to maybe sing a funeral dirge in place of a Christmas carol, but not that. Nevertheless, I made no move to stop her from drinking. Booze was a better way to drown her sorrows than holy water.
Veronica leaned in to Glenda. “They’re not celebrating Nick’s life,” she whispered. “Gigi Scalino kidnapped Luigi.”
“Well, holy hell.” Glenda put her hands on her hips and kicked a leg from a side slit in her dress that went all the way to her waist. “Gigi’s got a mansion on St. Charles. Maybe he took Luigi there.”
Gigi Scalino was too smart to hide Luigi at his house, but I didn’t say that to Glenda. I had a bigger problem to deal with—the nonne were filing from the sacristy like soldiers prepared for battle. Chins raised, chests puffed, they wielded rosaries in one hand and purses in the other. As they marched up the aisle with my nonna in the lead, they reminded me of Mussolini and his Black Shirts, or Black Skirts in their case.
I blocked Nonna’s path. “Whatever plan you’ve concocted isn’t going to happen.”
Her eyes went ninja. “We’re-a going to Gigi’s house. And he’s-a gonna tell us what he did with-a Luigi, or we’re-a gonna work him over, like I’m-a gonna do to you if you don’t-a move.”
She swung her purse, and I ducked to avoid a probable concussion from whatever was in it.
A siren wailed outside.
“The police are here,” I said through clenched teeth. “So you let them handle Gigi.”
“If it’s-a that-a detective who arrested-a Bradley”—she raised her chin—“we’ll-a handle him.”
The nonne raised their purses and swung them like nunchucks.
Siccing Nonna Mussolina and the Black Skirts on Sullivan wasn’t a bad idea. They had over a thousand years of pent-up homemaker rage between them—and purses loaded with heavy Bibles.
The last of the guests made their way from the chapel, and Sullivan blew in like a storm cloud, flanked by two scowling officers. His gaze struck me like a lightning bolt. “What was the tag on the car?”
“I didn’t get it, but the car was a black limo.”
He pulled a pen and pad from his back pocket. “But you ID’ed Gigi Scalino.”
“Not him. His spats.”
Sullivan lowered his pen and then his brow. “How in the hell am I supposed to get an arrest warrant based on a pair of damn spats?”
The nonne gasped at his language and hoisted their purses, and Nonna stretched out her rosary like a garrote.
I held them back, but only because we were in a church. “No one else in New Orleans wears spats and has a motive to kidnap Luigi.”
“This isn’t a TV show, Franki Rockford. We need actual evidence to incarcerate criminals.”
His hypocrisy hit a nerve, and my anger at him erupted. “Like when you falsely arrested Bradley for holding the Scalinos’ drugs?”
My words echoed through the chapel, and everyone fell silent.
“Franceshhhca Lucia Amato.” My mother tipped her wine bottle at me. “You uszhe your church voishe.”
Sullivan’s mouth opened at the sight of her but regained its customary sneer. “Your mother’s a wise woman, especially since you’re shouting slander.”
Father John stepped from the sacristy, his features drawn with concern. “Why don’t the two of you join me for a moment?”
Sullivan’s lips thinned. “This isn’t confession, Father. Your services aren’t needed.”
The nonne charged like horses in Siena’s Palio race, but Glenda moved in front of them. They dropped their purses and their anger and set about trying to cover her.
Veronica touched my arm. “Why don’t I come with you to the sacristy?”
“It’s all right.” I glowered at Sullivan. “I won’t kill him in a house of God.” I let the implication lie and stormed up the aisle to the altar, where Father John was trying to rescue the communion wine from my mother. I hooked a right into the sacristy and paced among the vestments, waiting for my showdown with Sullivan.
He entered and slammed the door, indifferent to the holy space. “You trying to land in jail to be close to your boyfriend? Because I’m all too happy to oblige.”
How had a guy who’d made a pass at me a mere six months before come to hate me so badly? “Admit that you arrested Bradley to get back at me.”
“He had drugs in his hand, Amato.”
I wanted to scream Because I put them there, but the threat of my arrest loomed large in the small room. “You know damn good and well that those drugs belong to Alfredo Scalino—whose brother just kidnapped Luigi.”
“The Scalinos had nothing to do with the gold bars.”
I lowered my head. “There’s no way Bradley was running a drug ring from the Galliano, and you know it. So cut the BS.”
“Here’s what I know. You introduced Bradley to Luigi, so he started dealing with Nick to finance his life of leisure with you.”
It was all I could do not to rip a cross from the wall an
d hurl it at him. “Drop the charges against Bradley or get ready to lose your badge.”
He stepped toward me, and for a split second I was convinced he would either kiss me or kill me, so I moved back. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw him flinch.
“Don’t threaten me, Amato. You already cost me a promotion. It would be a grave mistake to mess with my career.”
“Is that what this is about? Your career?”
“The New Orleans PD is my life, and I’d sooner take down you and your boyfriend before I let you ruin that for me.”
Sullivan was out for revenge, but I had to make him see reason. Bradley’s life depended on it. “What about the captain? The night Nick died they had a fight, and Nick went overboard. Did you question him about that?”
“No need. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got my man.”
I stared at his satisfied smirk, fearing that I’d heard him right but hoping I hadn’t. “What are you saying?”
His lips spread into a smile that made the Joker’s look charming. “As soon as I clear up this Luigi situation, I’m setting my sights back on your boyfriend. I’m not done with him yet.”
He left the room, and I sunk to the kneeling bench Father John used to pray before mass.
Sullivan was going to charge Bradley with Nick Pescatore’s murder.
“Where are David and The Vassal?” I paced the Private Chicks conference room like a drill sergeant in my olive-green sweater, even though my back still ached from that oar wallop. “It’s almost noon.”
Veronica’s eyes were guarded as she observed me from the head of the rectangular table. “I called them at ten thirty, before we left the chapel, but they were still asleep.”
“Do people still do that? Sleep, I mean?”
She fidgeted with the bow at the neck of her white blouse. “I know it isn’t the time to say this, but you have to get some rest. If you don’t, you won’t be able to help Luigi or Bradley.”
An ironic laugh leapt from my lips. “Even if I could sleep, my mom and Nonna wouldn’t let me. When I dropped them off, my mom passed out in my bed, and Nonna and the nonne went to work setting up a Find Luigi command center—and you won’t believe where.”
Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Page 14