Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  I reached over and set her Fun Meter to Min.

  Wendell shrugged and swallowed the last of his coffee. “Kate’s hair is different, so I might o’ confused her with someone else. But I was sure it was her on account o’ her T-shirt.”

  I sat forward. “What shirt?”

  “From the Gold Mine Saloon. That’s how I remembered. She brought an overnight bag onto the boat this mornin’, and it fell out.

  Something didn’t sound right. If Kate had a shirt from the saloon, then she could have worked there. But why lie about it, especially to a man who’d seen her on the job?

  The captain took the stage. “Pardon the interruption, riverboaters. I have one more announcement before releasing you to your stations. Detective Wesley Sullivan has graciously volunteered his days off to work security during the gambling tournament.”

  I looked at the tablecloth and saw red instead of white. When I raised my eyes, I saw black—Sullivan’s suit as he stepped onto the stage and had the audacity to take a bow.

  Everyone clapped. But my hand moved to the hobo bag hanging on my chair—where I’d put my gun.

  Ruth leaned in. “Why in the devil would the detective want to work free security?”

  Sullivan’s gaze targeted mine and told me the answer to her question. He hadn’t made the offer out of the kindness of his heart. He was coming for me, and I had to be ready.

  “Now that the galley’s all put back together and clean,” Pat the Sea Hag limp-loped around the island in a pair of pink Capris, “you can start the shrimp.”

  I’d spent the past seven hours restocking the pantry and sterilizing the kitchen, and I was ready for the torment to end. Rivers of sweat flowed from my hairnet to my kitchen clogs, and thanks to the rubber bib apron I was required to wear, I finally understood why Glenda felt so restricted in the things. “We don’t set sail for two days. Wouldn’t we want to peel the shrimp fresh?”

  She squinted a bloodshot eye. “What do you think this is, Long John Silver’s? We don’t have the luxury of a big, fancy crew, so we’ve got to work ahead.”

  Fancy was more than a stretch, but she was entitled to her opinion.

  “While you were dilly-dallying with the dishes, I had to get your workstation ready.” She gestured to a couple of white plastic buckets she’d placed beside the island.

  I could see why she was so put out. Arranging two whole buckets must’ve taken some effort. “Can I have a chair?”

  “That’s it right there.” She kicked one of the buckets with the toe of a dirty green clog.

  I took a seat on the hard, bumpy lid and stripped off a latex glove.

  “Just what do you think you’re doin’?”

  I followed her glare to my glove. “You can’t expect me to peel shrimp in these.”

  “I don’t, but Detective Sullivan does.”

  My heart hardened like the lid I was sitting on. “Why is that, exactly?”

  “So you don’t contaminate any evidence.”

  Evidence my aching rear. The crime scene had been processed. Sullivan had issued that order with the sole intent of making my life miserable—more so than it already was. I yanked on the glove and ripped off the bucket lid imagining that it was his huge Irish head.

  Crawfish.

  Pat Popeyed the semi-frozen shellfish. “Those are for my crawdad boil. The cops must’ve moved the buckets when they were looking for them gold bars. You keep your butt parked while I look for the shrimp.”

  I nodded. I was being micromanaged, probably at the insistence of Chef Alfredo. The Scalinos were surveilling me at my house, so they were definitely watching me on the Galliano. But why? The drugs were gone, so what were they afraid I would find?

  She disappeared down the hallway, and I stared at the crawdads. I hadn’t eaten them since my first date with Bradley because they’d caused my lips to swell to the size of boxing gloves. I smiled at the memory of him rushing me to the emergency room, and tears clouded my eyes. I’d had the relationship I’d always wanted, and I’d lost it. And not because I’d gotten him arrested for drug dealing, but because I hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth about the winepress and Sullivan.

  When would I learn?

  “What’re you blubberin’ about?” Pat dropped a bucket in front of me. “Is galley work too tough for you?”

  “No, I got attacked by a crazy woman, so my back hurts.”

  Evidently, getting attacked by crazy women was par for Pat’s course because she didn’t bat a squint eye at my explanation.

  She sucked the gap in her teeth. “You don’t know pain till you sit on one of them buckets after you’ve had your uterus yanked. Let me tell you, it goes from your dollar hole straight to your molars.”

  The last thing I wanted was to discuss female anatomy with Pat, and particularly in steamboat garbage chute terms, but I had to play along. “Uh, sorry you had to go through that.”

  She recoiled, and her eye quasi relaxed. “Yeah.” She hacked up some phlegm and spit it into her rag. “Hang on. I’ve got something that’ll make de-pooping the shrimp easier. It’s called a shrimp de-pooper.”

  I stared at her for a moment and not because of her unexpected kindness. How was it possible that she’d never heard the word deveiner working in the New Orleans culinary industry?

  She handed me the slim metal tool, and the eye squint turned slant. “That was a gift. Don’t try to steal it.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I won’t. I have one at home.”

  “Whoa. Big shot.” She lifted a box marked Swampfire Seafood Boil from the supply rack and carried it to the opposite side of the island so that she could keep a squint-eye on me and her precious de-pooper.

  It was the opportunity I’d been waiting for to try to figure out whether she was involved in Nick’s murder and the drugs. I picked up a shrimp. “So, is the chef still going to make his lemon-mint sorbet?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I thought he’d have to throw out the lemons after that guy stashed drugs in them.”

  “Nah.” She picked up a knife and cut open the box. “The cops took all the crates that had the gold bars. There were only six, so that left plenty for the sorbet.”

  I squeezed the shrimp to peel it, and it shot up from my gloved fingers and down to the bucket. I reached for another. “I still can’t believe that banker picked the Galliano to deal his drugs.”

  “He done it on purpose to discredit Captain Vandergrift. Killed that guy Nick they found in the freezer too.”

  “Why would he do all of that?”

  “Must’ve had something against the captain.”

  I gripped the shrimp, and it flew into the air and plummeted to the floor. Slippery suckers. “Maybe, but Nick had a playing card in his hand, so his death could’ve had something to do with gambling.”

  Her squint-eye squinted, and she pointed the knife at me. “You best not be implying that the captain killed the guy.”

  “Oh, I’m not.”

  “Good. Because he’s the one who gave me that shrimp de-pooper.”

  It didn’t take much to buy Pat’s loyalty. “And that queen of spades card could’ve been a voodoo offering.”

  She dropped the knife. “You been living in New Orleans too long.”

  I couldn’t argue with that while I was peeling shrimp in latex gloves on a crime-ridden steamboat.

  “With any luck,” she pulled spice bags from the box, “that banker guy’ll get life, and we can all get on with our work.”

  Angry at her “life” comment, I pinned a shrimp to my thigh and tried to rub off the shell. Pieces of shrimp squished out, but the shell stayed intact. “If the banker’s guilty, then why did the chef’s brother kidnap one of Nick’s relatives?”

  She stiffened. “Whoever that witness was made a mistake.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Gigi Scalino ain’t no kidnapper. He’s a gentleman. He paid for my hysterectomy bills and testosterone supplements.”<
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  So many questions came to mind—about Pat’s reasoning skills, the men who gave her presents, the doctor who thought she needed testosterone. And, since I was making a list, why hadn’t she done anything about that phlegm issue?

  But the questions died on my lips.

  Alfredo’s beady eyes studied me from the doorway. Then he went to the island and picked up Pat’s knife.

  My abs tensed, fearing a stabbing, and I tightened my grip on the deveiner. Did he hear what I said about Gigi? Or had he found out that I was the one who called the cops on him?

  Tim pushed open the door. “Captain wants to see you both.”

  Alfredo swore and shoved the knife into a block.

  My abs released, as did my breath.

  Pat removed her hairnet and apron, her Sea Hag face as pink as her Capris. She didn’t act like someone who had crimes to hide, but rather a woman who had the hots for the captain.

  Alfredo bit the skin around his thumb and stole a glimpse of Tim. Then he ran a hand through his greasy hair and exited followed by Pat, whose limp-lope had turned limp-gallop.

  Tim glanced around the galley and shot me his usual scowl before letting the door swing closed behind him.

  I stood frozen, torn between finishing my Franki Rockford shift and running for my Franki Amato life.

  “Hey there, sailor.”

  Kate’s voice. I tiptoed to the door.

  “What’re you doing on our day off tomorrow?” Her tone was flirty but forced.

  “I’ve got a buddy coming in from England. Why?”

  For a guy who was getting propositioned, Tim sounded oddly defensive.

  “Well, I was hoping we could have lunch.”

  “Yeah,” he hedged. “I don’t know.”

  “At my place?”

  “He docks at six,” he gushed. “I can be there by noon.”

  I bet he could.

  “On second thought,” Kate purred, “why wait until tomorrow when we could start tonight?”

  My text tone blared from behind my bib apron. In a panic, I sprinted down the hallway. I removed a glove and fished my phone from my T-shirt pocket, and my heart flip-flopped at the message from Veronica.

  Bradley has a bail reduction hearing tomorrow afternoon. He could be out tomorrow night or early Sunday. Fingers crossed!

  My knees buckled, and I sunk into a chair. If he made bail, then what? Should I call him? And if I did, what could I possibly say to make up for ruining his life?

  I put my head down—and realized where I was sitting. My phone fell from my hand and clattered beneath the desk.

  Mannaggia me, I said, cursing myself. If Alfredo found me snooping in his office, he’d finish me off with that knife.

  I dropped to my knees and felt underneath the low desk. My fingers touched something furry, and I jerked my hand back, suppressing a scream that would have rocked the steamboat. I glanced behind me to check for Alfredo and put my glove back on. Then I held my breath as I pressed my cheek to the dirty floor, hoping I didn’t come eye to eye with a rat or get infected with E. coli.

  Fortunately, the furry creature was a moldy carrot top. I scanned the filthy tile for my phone. I spotted it near a far corner, and there was something above it—taped to the bottom of the desk.

  I squinted like Pat.

  A picture of Mark Twain?

  I reached for the photo. As soon as my gloved fingers wrapped around it, I had a feeling that I knew what it was. I pried it from the wood, and the tiny steamboat beneath Twain’s image confirmed my suspicion.

  It was a deck of playing cards from Marian’s gift shop.

  I didn’t have to open the box to know that the queen of spades was missing.

  14

  Every brain cell I had screamed Get the hell out of Alfredo’s office.

  Holding the pack of cards by the tips of my latex glove, I ran up the hallway. Alfredo and Pat hadn’t returned from their meeting with the captain, so I darted to the supply rack, dropped the deck into a plastic baggie, and threw it into my hobo bag. Then I gave my gloves a good washing in the sink and hurried back to my bucket.

  The obvious course of action was to give the cards to the police so that they could dust them for the killer’s fingerprints, but that wasn’t an option. Sullivan was dead set on framing Bradley, so I feared that he might make the cards disappear from the evidence room.

  Which raised an important question. Assuming Alfredo was Nick’s killer, why hadn’t he thrown the cards into the Mississippi? While he was stuffing Nick’s body into the pantry freezer, he could’ve tossed them down the dollar hole.

  A shudder racked my spine, not because of the memory of Nick in the deep freeze but because Pat’s anatomy came to mind—and it wasn’t pretty. “From now on, I’m calling the dollar hole the ‘garbage chute.’”

  I started at the sound of my voice. I had to stop talking to myself, especially on the Galliano. And I had to get back to work.

  I grabbed a shrimp, and it catapulted from my fingers straight to my lips. I sputtered and wiped my mouth with a stinky shellfishy glove. “Oh, God. I could’ve just gotten a sea tapeworm.”

  Stripping off the gloves, I rushed to the sink and blasted my lips with the spray nozzle. After a solid twenty seconds of spraying, water dripped from my hairnetted hair, and my face burned—from hot water and hot rage. And I made a promise to myself. When Sullivan was behind bars where he belonged, I would take any money I earned from Nick’s case and bribe a prison official to put him on permanent kitchen duty.

  I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes remained of my shift, but in my current state—and with the evidence in my purse—I felt like a boiled shrimp waiting to be peeled by a crazy bag lady in latex gloves. It was time to abandon ship so I could talk to Veronica about what to do with the cards and find out whether David had any updates on the Scalinos’ bases of operation. Every minute that passed lessened the likelihood that we would find Luigi alive, and I couldn’t let that happen.

  I removed my wet hairnet and apron, grabbed my bag from the supply rack, and entered the dining hall. As I approached the door to the casino, I heard a man’s voice and paused to listen.

  “Ain’t no ghosts ’round here. No sir.”

  Wendell.

  “It might look like that bar rag moved by itself, but it’s jus’ your imagination, Wendell.”

  Talking to himself. It was so unfair that there wasn’t a masculine equivalent for crazy bag lady.

  I pushed open the door and approached the bar. “Hey, Wendell.”

  He jumped like I was Agnes Frump’s flaming head—after she’d been doused with water to put the fire out. “Girl, you can’t be comin’ up on me like dat. Not on no haunted boat.”

  “Sorry about that.” I eyed the gris-gris bag he wore around his neck to ward off the ghosts that weren’t on the Galliano. “Is Kate around?”

  “I sent her to make groceries. We’re short on bar snacks.”

  I slid onto a bar stool. “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Long as it don’t involve me pokin’ around dis old boat.”

  Wendell was going to have a rough time on the Galliano’s overnight gambling trips. “I just need you to keep an eye on Kate. She’s up to something.”

  He leaned onto the bar. “What kind o’ somethin’?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. But she’s acting suspicious. First, she flirted with the captain, who’s way too old for her, and now she’s switched to Tim, who is way too surly for any woman.”

  He cleared his throat and began wiping the spotless counter.

  I knew what that meant. Slowly, I spun on my stool.

  Tim stood at the foot of the grand staircase looking like Cracker Jack about to get in a shore-leave fight. He surged toward me, as did the smell of the Old Spice he must’ve poured on for Kate’s benefit. “You done with your shift, or are you slacking off?”

  “I’m off work.”

  “Then you’re off the ship.”

>   “Who are you, the cruise director?” I meant to say captain, but Tim was about as fun to work with as Ruth—oar wallop included.

  “I’m the first mate to the captain, who doesn’t approve of staff hanging out at the bar after hours.”

  I wanted to ask whether the captain approved of a staff member carrying on with the cocktail waitress, but I knew when to cut and run. “If it’s the captain’s rule, then fine.”

  Wendell tossed the rag over his shoulder. “She wasn’t drinkin’.”

  “See to it that she never does.” Tim turned to me. “I’d better not find you on this ship until the day we set sail. Is that clear?”

  Was Tim trying to tell me that he knew I’d been on board the night the gold bars were found? There was no way to know, and with a gun and the cards in my bag I had to avoid a possible escalation. So I rose and headed for the exit. Outside, I stomped to the gangplank and, against my better judgement, looked back.

  Tim watched from a casino window.

  I glared, and he turned away.

  As I bounced across the gangplank, I thought about how despicable he was. There was no way Kate was interested in him. And I couldn’t fathom how he had any friends, especially ones who would travel from as far away as England to see him.

  I stepped onto land and spotted Marv walking toward the Where Dat Tours ticket booth with a Central Grocery takeout bag. It had to be a muffuletta sandwich.

  He raised the bag in a greeting. “I was just thinking about you. Last night I watched The Rockford Files. Did you ever see the episode called ‘There’s One in Every Port?’”

  “Like I said, I just caught the occasional rerun when my parents watched it. I don’t remember much about the show.”

  “Well, you should watch this one. It’s about a ship called the Golden Star.”

  The word gold was coming up too often. My newly embraced superstitious self thought it might be a sign, especially since the reference involved a ship. “What was the episode about?”

  “It wasn’t your typical bad guy investigation. Jim gets conned by his ex-con friends who want to buy the ship, and he runs a con of his own to get even.”