Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah, she said that a scarf gives your outfit that touch of class, unless it’s a cheap one, of course.”

  One look at Annabella’s scarf confirmed that she hadn’t internalized that all-important accessory rule. But if Jessica had said that, what had it meant that she’d been strangled with a cheap scarf she would have detested? “Did she really say that? About cheap scarves, I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked through the scarves. “Was she a good manager?”

  “Well, she was cold as ice to her employees.” Annabella’s happy tone had turned huffy. “I mean, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But for her, we were nobodies—lower than nobodies. But that’s the way it is in fashion, and she knew this business like the back of her hand. She actually got to intern at the original LaMarca store in Milan’s Via Monte Napoleone fashion district. I don’t know how she did it, either, because they never give internships to foreigners.”

  “How nice for her.” I considered the connections Jessica must have had to land that kind of opportunity.

  “I was hoping she would mentor me. You know, so I could work my way up? But she thought I was too unfashionable.” Her double chin trembled with emotion from the perceived injustice of that last statement.

  “Well, that’s just her opinion.” I wanted to reassure her even though I did think that the poodle skirt was killing her career chances. “I mean, you look like a 1950s version of Geri Halliwell—you know, Ginger Spice? So how in the world could you be unfashionable?”

  “I know, right?” She sniffled. “But Jessica was nothing if not brutally honest. Besides, she always said that emotion had no place in the business world and that we should leave our feelings at home—along with our personal lives.”

  “Speaking of personal lives, the police think her boyfriend did it, right?” I pulled a hideous scarf from the rack and pretended to examine its bizarre horseshoe pattern.

  “Yeeeeeah.” Annabella’s tone was doubtful as she plucked a stray yellow thread from her white sleeve. “But I’m not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that?” I watched as she twisted the thread around her fingers.

  “Well, for starters, fashion is a cutthroat industry. If you’ve made it in this business, you’ve got enemies.” She gave me an extra wide-eyed and knowing look.

  “Gosh, I had no idea the business was like that,” I fibbed as I put the ugly scarf back on its hanger. “Do you know if Jessica had any enemies?”

  “Maaaaaybe,” Annabella said, suddenly vague and evasive. Then she batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I guess I can tell you. You’re not the police.” She glanced from side to side again and even took a look behind her. “There was at least one guy who didn’t like her. He came in here one night after we were closed. Jessica didn’t know I was here because I’d left for the night, but I came back because I’d forgotten my purse. I went in through the back of the store, so I never saw him, but I heard him yelling at her.”

  “What did he say?” I turned to look at her, abandoning all attempts to seem like a scarf shopper.

  “Well, I couldn’t hear all of it, but I know he said she’d broken an agreement they had. And I think he warned her to stay away from New Orleans. He also said something about the London College of Fashion, and it almost sounded like Jessica had gone there. The weird thing is that Jessica never mentioned going to that school. It’s not even on her company profile.”

  I shared her confusion. Leaving a prestigious institution like the London College of Fashion off your famous design house company profile was like intentionally not telling your doctor that you had cancer. It just didn’t make sense. “Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “No.” She broke the thread in half. “I’m positive the guy said she was a student. I mean, how could I mistake the London College of Fashion? Jimmy Choo went there.”

  “Of course.” I said it as though I were an expert in Jimmy Choo’s pedigree. “Did she say anything back to the guy?”

  “Just that LaMarca had offered her amaaaaazing incentives on the condition that she manage the New Orleans store for a year. Sales were down, so they wanted a Louisiana native to try to turn it around. I heard her tell him that she wouldn’t be in town for long, but he said he wanted her gone right away.”

  “Maybe it was an ex-boyfriend. You know how demanding men can be.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I followed her bulging gaze as she glanced at someone who appeared to be a manager and then resumed the scarf search. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “A few months ago, so I doubt there’s any connection to her death. Hey, do you like any of these?” Annabella shoved four yellow scarves at me.

  “That bright yellow one.”

  “Great. Should I put this aside for you while you continue shopping, ma’am?”

  I could tell by her shift to a more professional tone that the gossip fest had ended. “No, I think that’s it for today.” I noted the two hundred forty-dollar price tag on the scarf with a sinking feeling. Well, if I go without food this month, I might finally lose that twenty pounds.

  As Annabella bounced off to the register in her pink bobby socks and dingy white Keds, I pulled my wallet from my bag and accidentally upended my coin purse in the process.

  “Mannaggia.” I muttered the Italian version of damn as my change spilled onto the gold carpet. I bent down to retrieve a quarter that had rolled underneath the base of the first scarf rack on the right, and I dislodged a small, hard object. It was a brownish-white bead the size of a hazelnut, and it was carved from ivory or some type of bone in the form of an eerie-looking skull. Could it have something to do with Jessica’s death?

  I checked to make sure no one was watching as I pocketed the bead and headed to the cash register.

  “A skull bead? That’s freakin’ awesome,” David exclaimed as I pulled the bead from my pocket during an impromptu meeting in Veronica’s office. He grabbed the bead with his long, skeletal fingers. “Hey, this looks exactly like one of those beads from Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo.”

  “Marie Laveau?” I took the bead. “The voodoo queen? Father John told me she was dead.”

  “She is.” Veronica leaned back in her maraschino cherry-colored leather chair. “It’s a voodoo store on Bourbon Street that uses her name.”

  David nodded. “Yeah, my buddy Alex has a bracelet made of those beads hanging from the rearview mirror of his Honda. He said he got them from there.”

  “Really?” Veronica sat forward. She had always been one to take an interest in jewelry, even of the voodoo variety. “Do you know what these beads signify?”

  “Nah, you’d have to ask the kid who works at the store. I’d check it out though, cause that place is rad,” David said in college speak. “They have voodoo dolls, chicken feet, gator heads, all kinds of potions. It’s badass in there.”

  It sounded more beastly than badass. “Potions? For what?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of stuff, like love potions and ones that’ll help you score some cash. There’s even one that’ll help you beat the law, like in court.”

  I remembered the pound cake left for Saint Expedite. “There sure is a lot of voodoo that centers around winning court cases. I wonder if they make one that will help you solve a case.”

  “Speaking of solving cases,” Veronica stood and removed a pale pink trench coat with a ruffled collar from the coat rack near her desk, “it’s getting late, and tomorrow is Saturday. But there are a few things you and I will have to do this weekend, Franki. First, I need you to stop by Marie Laveau’s sometime before Monday. If the murderer dropped the skull bead—and that’s a big if—then we need to find out whether it came from that store.”

  “No problem.” I kind of wanted to take a look at those love potions David had mentioned while I was there. Not that I believed in that sort of thing, of course—at least, not completely. “Do you want me to call the police too?”
>
  David stared at me, motionless.

  Veronica blinked. “What for?”

  “To tell them about the skull bead. If it does turn out to be connected to the Evans case, then it’s evidence.”

  “We’re not required to share evidence with the police.” Veronica spoke slowly, like I was a child. “Just like they’re not obligated to turn over any evidence to us.”

  “Oh, right. I know that.” I did my best to sound like I’d simply forgotten that not-so-minor detail.

  An awkward silence followed.

  I rose and went to the door. “I’ll go call the London College of Fashion to verify that Jessica was a student there.”

  “It’s too late to call London now, so I’ll take care of that first thing Monday morning.” Veronica slipped on her coat. “Anyhow, the other thing you and I have to do tomorrow is scour local shops for that scarf. If we find out where it came from, we might be able to track down who bought it. Besides, all this talk of scarves and London has put me in the mood to do some shopping.”

  At nine p.m., I slid into a lavender-scented bubble bath in my pink-claw foot tub, and my phone rang. “Figures.” I glanced at the display, which was face up on the toilet lid. “Aaaaand it’s my parents.”

  I considered letting it go to voicemail but decided to answer. I would need a relaxing bath after a call from home. And maybe a bottle of Chianti. I took a deep breath and picked up.

  “Hello?” I tried to conceal the anxiety in my voice.

  “Francesca, I got-a you two.” My nonna spoke with the cadence of someone who’d just crossed the finish line of a long, arduous marathon.

  “Two what, Nonna?”

  “Dates, Franki. Dates. Mamma mia.”

  “Only two?” The question came out before I could fully think through the ramifications.

  “It’s-a hard work-a finding a date for a zitella who is-a twenty-nine years of age. Give-a me a break-a! Besides, you been around-a the block a time or two, eh? And you don’t even go to church. Dio mio! I’m-a no Mother Theresa here. I don’t work-a no miracles.”

  There was no point in arguing. Grandmothers in contemporary Sicily had modernized with the times, but those like my nonna, who had immigrated to the United States in the first half of the twentieth century, still mentally lived in Fascist Italy. We granddaughters could try to challenge their dictatorial rule, but we knew it was a futile and even risky endeavor. “So, who are these guys?”

  “Bruno and Pio.”

  Brown and Pius, I translated. With names like those, they had to be the sons, grandsons, or nephews of her Sicilian friends. I just hoped that they didn’t have the stereotypical Sicilian-American worldview, which necessarily precluded the best that modernity had to offer women—things like working outside the home, eating pre-made food, and wearing brightly colored clothing.

  “Franki, are you still-a there?”

  “Yes, Nonna.” I tried to come up with a reason that would prevent me from going out with those guys. For lack of a better excuse, I opted for the truth. “Listen, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I don’t feel comfortable going on blind dates.”

  There was a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone followed by silence—a sure sign that my nonna was summoning her inner matriarch in preparation for battle. And a Sicilian grandma was a formidable opponent, especially if she was your father’s mamma. In that case, a girl couldn’t rely on her dad for support because Sicilian mothers played their sons like finely tuned mandolins, and my dad was no exception.

  “Francesca, you go on-a these dates, or I go to my grave-a.”

  In one savvy maneuver, my nonna had won the battle before it had begun. If I didn’t go on the dates, she would tell my father that I was killing her. And my father, like a good Italian son, would tell me that I was being selfish for making my nonna so unhappy and guilt me into complying with her demands. There was nothing left to do but feign acquiescence, and then try to find an alternate method of escape.

  “Okay, Nonna.” I glanced at Napoleon, who’d entered the bathroom with one ear cocked to listen in. “What can you tell me about these guys?”

  “Bruno, he is-a the son of-a my friend Santina. She’s-a the one who hurt-a her back in that terrible car accident.”

  My ear pricked up like Napoleon’s. “What car accident?”

  “The one where Bruno was-a driving her to mass, and he run-a the red light.”

  I seized upon Bruno’s less-than-ideal driving skills as an excuse to get out of the date. “He doesn’t sound like a safe driver. I’m not sure that I should be going anywhere with him.”

  “Don’t-a worry, Franki. He don’t have-a the driver license no more. Besides, you gonna meet-a him at-a his house.”

  Foiled again. “I don’t know this guy, so I’d rather meet him at a neutral place like a restaurant,” I countered as I extended my hand and stroked the fur on Napoleon’s head.

  “No, because his mamma she gonna cook-a the dinner.”

  “Nonna, I’m too old to be chaperoned on a date by someone’s mother.”

  “Franki, she’s-a no gonna chaperone. Bruno live-a with his mamma.”

  Of course he does—like all single Italian men.

  “And he is a nice-a boy because he take-a good care of his mamma.” Her tone reflected her utmost respect. “And he don’t have-a no kids.”

  My nonna was clearly trying to sell me on Bruno, which meant she was hiding something.

  “How old is he, and what does he do for a living?” My voice was wary, and Napoleon’s eye narrowed as though he were wary too.

  “He is-a thirty-nine, and he work-a for the New Orleans Saints-a for twenty years.”

  My nonna was well aware that as a Texas girl I was a huge football fan, and I was I was already envisioning a date that included box seats at the Superdome with catered Cajun food and a few Hurricanes thrown in. But I wondered if she knew that the Saints were a football team and not an association of Catholic martyrs. “What does he do for the Saints, exactly?”

  “He manage a food-a stand at-a the stadium.”

  So much for the box seats. “What about Pio?”

  “Pio, he is-a forty, and he is-a the nephew of Luisa, who is-a the cousin of my cousin, Agatina.”

  A relative? This is an easy out. “Nonna, I’m not going to date anyone I’m related to, no matter how old I get.”

  Napoleon must have felt comforted by my strong stance, because he closed his eyes and curled up on the bathroom rug.

  “Franki, he don’t have-a our blood. And his-a famiglia they own-a the funeral parlor in-a my town, Porto Empedocle.”

  Of course they do, because that sort of thing makes my skin crawl. “Does he live at home with his mother too?”

  “No, he live at-a the YN-aCA.”

  “The YMCA, Nonna. And why does he live there?”

  Napoleon reopened one eye, backing up my suspicion.

  “He can’t-a live with his mamma because he pay-a for her to live at-a the retirement home, and he also have-a to pay-a the alimonies to his ex-wife and kids.”

  “He’s divorced, and he has kids?”

  “Sì, five. But he has a good-a job, eh Franki?”

  She threw the job part in, knowing full well that an invalid mother, an ex-wife, and five kids definitely qualified as baggage.

  “Nonna, I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I’d rather not date a man who works at a funeral home. You know that sort of thing is disturbing to me.”

  Napoleon opened both eyes and raised his head. If he could’ve talked, he would’ve agreed with me.

  “Franki, he work-a for the sanitation department.”

  So did Tony Soprano. But if Pio lives at the Y, then I can rule out the Mafia. Well, maybe. “I have an idea. Why don’t you give me their phone numbers so I can call them?” I asked, knowing that I never would. It was a weak last-ditch attempt, but it was all I had.

  “I already gave-a them your number. And your street address
and your address for the emails too.”

  Nonna had covered her bases. Hers was no ordinary act of war—she’d declared a full-on state of emergency.

  “I gave-a them-a Veronica’s number too. It’s-a better to be safe than-a sorry, no? And you’ve been-a sorry for a long-a time.”

  Okay, that’s it. Time to cut the call short, with or without my dating exit strategy. “Nonna, I’ll wait for Bruno and Pio to call. Give my love to Mom and Dad. Ciao ciao!”

  I hung up and did what any self-respecting Italian-American girl would do following a crushing defeat from her nonna—I climbed from the bubble bath and headed straight for the kitchen where I opened the pantry door and grabbed a bottle of Chianti.

  As I downed my first glass of the rich, red liquid, I wondered whether my dating prospects were so grim that I needed my grandmother to set me up with reckless mamma’s boys who worked in concessions and divorced mobsters who lived at the Y. After all, I wasn’t bad looking, and even though I’d gained a few pounds, I was trying to lose weight.

  I poured myself another glass of wine and grabbed some fontina cheese from the refrigerator. Plus, I refused to believe that a single woman had to raise the white flag of dating surrender at the age of twenty-nine. To thwart the intentions of my nonna and her army of Sicilian suitors, I needed to find a guy and quick. And I couldn’t lie about it because my nonna definitely had her sources.

  I took a swig straight from the bottle and resolved to pay another visit to Pontchartrain Bank. If it was between Nonna’s picks or Bradley, who may or may not have been flirting with me, I’d give the sexy bank manager a second chance—that is, unless he had a Sicilian mamma or nonna.

  6

  “Veronica, are you alive?” I crouched beneath her tiny front porch to avoid the pouring rain and knocked on her apartment door for the third time.

  “Be right there!”

  “Okay.” I felt a tinge of apprehension. I’d been in New Orleans for almost a week and still hadn’t seen the inside of Veronica’s apartment. When we were in college, she had a Cinderella-style dorm room that had always made me uncomfortable. I could deal with the pink—even though I’d always been a purple girl myself—but her delicate princess furniture made me feel like Alice in Wonderland after she’d eaten the cake and grown to the size of a giantess.