Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set
Page 1
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set
(Books 1–3)
Traci Andrighetti
Contents
Limoncello Yellow
Prosecco Pink
Amaretto Amber
Call to Action
About the Author
Also by Traci Andrighetti
Sneak Peak
FRANKI AMATO MYSTERIES BOX SET
(BOOKS 1–3)
by
TRACI ANDRIGHETTI
***
Copyright © 2017, 2019 by Traci Andrighetti
Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellyn
Limoncello Press www.limoncellopress.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Created with Vellum
LIMONCELLO YELLOW
by
TRACI ANDRIGHETTI
***
Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Traci Andrighetti
Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellyn
Limoncello Press www.limoncellopress.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Created with Vellum
Grazie, Graham. The best is yet to come.
Book Backstory
Limoncello Yellow came to be because of five random events in my life:
1) A car trip from Texas to New Orleans that I took with my parents in the early nineties so that my father could stock up on Italian deli meat at Central Grocery (Italians will go to great lengths for their food);
2) An accidental encounter on Bourbon Street in my twenties with half-dressed day-shift strippers and a bucket of Popeye’s fried chicken;
3) An unexpected introduction to limoncello on my honeymoon thanks to Serbian waiters in Rome;
4) A superb and inspiring online writing class I took from Internationally Bestselling Author Kristin Harmel;
5) The amazing “Femme Fatale” contest I entered on New York Times Bestselling Author Gemma Halliday’s website (the grand prize was a Kindle and month of mentoring, and yet I ended up with a two-book deal!).
If I could go back and thank each and every one of the above individuals—especially the strippers and the bouncer that let me into Big Daddy’s when it was closed for an emergency bathroom stop—I totally would. It’s funny how random events can all add up to a big, life-changing thing like writing a book.
While I’m thanking people, there is no way I could have finished this book without the help of my husband, my parents, and my parents-in-law. My guilt for taking precious time away from my young son, was lessened by the knowledge that he was in their loving hands. I owe them a huge debt of gratitude that I will never be able to repay (and no, Dad, I’m not giving you any of the royalties).
Speaking of my son, I’d like to thank him for putting up with all the writing. D, you will always be my boy.
I would also like to thank the fabulous Barbara Marking Steiner (ex-cop-turned-elementary-school-principal who owns a pink handgun, y’all!) for being available on a moment’s notice to advise me on police matters.
Words cannot express how grateful I am to Linda O’Krent for pushing me (forcefully) down the writing path and to Chelsea Drescher for telling me that I didn’t want to write academic texts anymore. I should have known that I didn’t want to be a professor when I chose Italian mystery writer Andrea Camilleri as the subject of my dissertation. (Incidentally, giallo, the Italian word for “yellow,” also means “mystery novel” because the covers of the first mysteries published in Italy were yellow. Of course, this is why the color yellow simply had to be in the title of the first book in the Franki Amato Mystery series.)
On the subject of symbolism, I need to say grazie mille to Matthew Amato, Marissa Maggio, Benji Orlansky, Mike Reiff, and Bill Savoie for letting me use their last names, which are every bit as vibrant as they are, and to Brady Harris for unknowingly lending me his appropriately individualistic first name. It bears noting that I chose the Italian surname “Amato” for Franki because it sounds tough but means “loved” and because Matthew Amato, who was one of my Italian students at the University of Texas, is one of the finest young men I know. I selected the name “Francesca,” a.k.a. “Franki,” in memory of my parents’ Cairn Terrier—one of the most inquisitive, determined and flat out adorable dogs who ever lived.
Last but not least, I would like to extend my appreciation to The Flight Path Coffee House in Austin, Texas, for being my local source of inspiration and to the city of New Orleans for being the weird, wild, and wonderful place that it is. My plan was to write a mystery with a colorful title and colorful characters, and from the moment I came up with that goal, I knew that The Big Easy was the only possible setting for Limoncello Yellow.
Baci e abbracci (XOXO),
Traci
Cocktails
Franki Amato appreciates a good cocktail every so often—okay, maybe more often than not. After all, it’s hard work fighting crime in New Orleans. In general, her motto is “When life gives you lemons, make Limoncello.” But in extreme cases she revises it to “When life gives you lemons, skip the ‘making Limoncello’ part and go straight to drinking it.”
LIMONCELLO
Here is Franki’s recipe for three bottles of pure lemon heaven.
Ingredients
10 medium (or 15 small) Meyer lemons
1 quart Everclear (a brand of grain alcohol)
1 and 1/2 quarts water
2 and 3/4 pounds of sugar
Wash and peel the lemons. Soak the lemon peels in three quarters of the Everclear for one-to-two months, storing the mixture in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.
When the peels are infused with the Everclear, boil the sugar and water until it makes syrup (about five minutes). After the syrup has cooled, pour it into the lemon-peel mixture along with the remaining Everclear.
Store the Limoncello mixture in a cool, dark place for forty days. Then strain it with cheesecloth to remove the lemon peels before bottling the Limoncello. Serve chilled. Cin cin!
LIMONCELLO MARGARITA
Because Franki is originally from Texas, she occasionally enjoys her Limoncello with a Tex-Mex twist.
Ingredients
2 ounces tequila
1 ounce Grand Marnier
1 ounce Limoncello
> 1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
1/2 ounce fresh lime juice
1/2 teaspoon sugarsalt for the glass rim
1
“This place makes the Bates Motel look like a freakin’ spa resort.” My sarcastic quip wasn’t intended for my partner, Officer Stan Stubbs. It was for me. Because I was shaking so badly from the cold and fear that I was afraid the gun in my holster would fire on its own. I longed for the cozy fire and protective embrace of my boyfriend that I’d felt as we’d exchanged Christmas presents just hours before.
“Folks, you need to go back to your rooms immediately,” Stan announced to the crowd of curious motel guests.
The onlookers began to disperse, and the woman in room six moaned again. According to 911 dispatch, she had been in distress for at least half an hour.
I shivered and wondered what kind of psycho had harmed the woman.
Stan drew his gun. “Something about this doesn’t feel like a regular domestic abuse situation. We need urgent backup, Franki.”
I nodded and grabbed the radio from my belt. “I have a 10-39 at the Twilight Motel on Manor Road. Request backup.”
Stan began his approach to room six.
I put the device away and drew my gun. I took my place on the opposite side of the door from Stan.
“I’m goin’ in on the count of three.” He used his dire tone to match the circumstances. “I need to get to the john, and quick like.”
I gasped. “Now, Stan?”
Stan was my partner on the Austin PD. As a rookie on the force, I’d been paired with a seasoned veteran of the department. Even though we’d spent the past six months together, I’d learned little from Stan except that he had a “wifey” named Juanita who worshipped the ground he walked on, he valued his handgun collection more than he did his adult children, and he suffered from acute, chronic gastrointestinal distress. And despite his self-proclaimed “legendary instinct” for cracking cases, he was perpetually baffled by his stomach issues even though the culprit was clear—a steady diet of jelly donuts and chorizo-bean-and-cheese breakfast tacos that he washed down with a gallon or so of coffee and Gatorade because he was also chronically dehydrated from the diarrhea. Needless to say, he spent the better part of every shift visiting the nearest men’s room.
Ignoring my concern, Stan grasped his gun with both hands and slammed his right shoulder into the door. It flew open, and he stormed into the room. “Police! Hands in the air!”
I rushed in behind him, my gun drawn, and the woman let out a hair-raising scream.
“What in the hell?” Stan shouted.
I followed his gaze to the bed, and a chill went through my body.
Stan snorted. “Why, it’s just a couple goin’ at it.”
I blinked hard. Was it my imagination playing tricks on me at 4:30 a.m., or was one member of that couple horribly familiar? As in, exchanging-gifts-by-a-cozy-fire familiar?
“Vince?” My voice was barely above a whisper as I stared at my boyfriend of over two years.
He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. “Franki?”
Make that, like a cheating rat caught in the act.
Stan looked from Vince to me. “You two know each other?”
I nodded, unable to speak. The chill that I’d felt had turned to a dull aching pain, and all I wanted to do was run from the room and cry. But I couldn’t because I was on duty.
“I’ll let you take it from here.” Stan rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
No sooner had he left than the woman leapt from the bed—all 6’ 5” or so of her—wearing nothing but her outrage. “Zis invazion iz illegal in Deutschland.”
“All right, Franki.” Vince’s tone was patronizing. “No crime has been committed, so why don’t you put the gun down? Then we can all talk about this like rational adults.”
No crime? Rational adults? The dull pain turned to red-hot anger. Before I could think it through, I shouted, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to sit down to chat with you and your German whore here—”
The furious fräulein kicked the gun from my hand, and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as it flew under the bed.
“Be careful, Franki,” Vince warned. “She’s here from Munich on a semi-pro wrestling tour.”
“Oh, so now you’re worried about my well-being?” I backed away from the German giantess. Now that I’d mentioned it, I was a little worried about me too. She was squatting down low with her hands raised, like she was going to make mincemeat of me.
“For you, ze ‘tilt-a-whirl slam.’“ She lunged for my waist.
From over her shoulder, I saw Vince leap from the bed to tackle her. Without even so much as a glance over her shoulder, she laid him out cold with an elbow to the jaw.
“Ze ‘discus elbow shmash,’“ she explained, raising her chin and jutting out her King Kong-like chest.
It was clear that the crazed Kraut was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately for me, she was refusing to recognize that I was a force to be reckoned with too—a member of the police force. Before I knew what was happening, she had heaved all 5’ 10” and 170 pounds of me over her right shoulder and begun to spin. Then she let go.
I landed on the floor with a thud and desperately tried to remember what the police academy had taught me to do in such situations. But the truth was that the trainers hadn’t covered how to extricate oneself from a female German wrestler with a serious case of roid rage.
“Und now ze ‘fist drop.’“ She fell onto me while driving her fist into my belly.
I writhed on the ground in agony, gasping for breath. Then I saw the Munich Monster rise up from the floor like Godzilla from the sea. Clutching my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and did my best to mimic her sparring moves.
I dodged another lunge and glanced in the direction of the bathroom. “I really need you out here, Stan.”
“Just another minute.” I heard the toilet flush.
I had to reason with the raging wrestler. “Listen, Greta or Helga or whatever your name is—”
“Mein name is Petra. Petra ze Pretzelmaker.” Her face contorted with rage as the veins bulged from her thick, manly neck. “It iz not whore.”
“Well, whoever you are,” I wheezed, “you’re under arrest.”
“Nein. You are under arrest. Prepare for ze ‘body avalanche.’“ She flew through the air, knocked me flat on my back, and pinned me beneath her hulking frame.
Trying to protect my stomach from another fist drop, I rolled over just as she introduced a “hair pull” move that jerked me backward into an upward facing dog position.
With my gaze locked on the ceiling, I frantically tried to visualize what a good cop would do in a situation she hadn’t been trained for when her partner’s in the bathroom and she’d already called for backup, but nothing was coming to me. In the meantime, Petra, as her wrestling named implied, was twisting me into a pretzel. I had to buy time until backup arrived, or she was going to turn me into spaetzle.
“Petra, you need to release me. In the U.S., assaulting a police officer is a felony offense. You could go to prison for a long time.”
To my relief, she abruptly let go of my hair. But as I fell forward, she used her brawn to lift me into the air by my belt loops and sling me over her shoulder yet again. I heard the distinct sound of the seat of my uniform pants splitting.
Wunderbar, I thought as I remembered that I’d gone commando that day for lack of clean underwear.
“Und now I shpank.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The full force of her giant paw came down on my bare behind.
I mentally swore at the backup team for taking so long to arrive, and I cursed my pants for splitting. I’d spent years avoiding my large butt, both visually and mentally. Since it was behind me, I’d never had to look at it or think about it. Ever. And that had been my strategy—until then.
I heard a wet smacking sound as her palm struck my bottom for
the second time. My eyes filled with angry tears.
The toilet flushed again.
“I’m coming, Franki.” Stan rushed from the bathroom, fumbling with the buckle on his oversized pants. He drew his gun and aimed it at Petra. “Freeze! You’re under arrest!”
Petra stopped in mid-spank, leaving my bare bottom directly under the glow of the only light in the dim room.
“Drop the officer, boy,” Stan commanded.
To my chagrin, Petra promptly did as she was told, and I hit the floor with the full force of my weight on my right knee. I was almost positive that it was either dislocated or broken.
Stan waved the gun at Petra. “Now lie down on your belly real slow-like, son, and put your hands behind your back.”
I rolled onto my back and clutched my knee. “She’s the female, Stan. Vince is unconscious on the other side of the bed.”
He sauntered over to Petra and squinted at her in the soft light. “Well I’ll be damned.”
After he cuffed the then astonishingly docile Deutschländer and pulled her to her feet, he whistled in amazement. “You’re a real nutcracker, aren’t ya?”
Despite my loathing for the woman, I rolled my eyes at Stan’s remark. The guy had no filter.
I looked on angrily as he led the placid Petra out the door to the squad car, protecting her head with his right hand as he helped her into the backseat with the other.