“What did he want?”
“His weekly update—and to harass me.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry.”
“No worries, but only because he told me something important. It’s looking more and more like something went down in London that involved Jessica Evans. Any chance you can meet today?”
“Of course I can meet.” Her cheerful tone megaphoned into my ear. “How about Thibodeaux’s at noon? I could really use a mimosa. Oh, and some onion rings. Mm.”
The mention of alcohol and greasy onions made my stomach lurch. “Works for me. See you then.”
I hung up and pondered the logistics of how I was going to make it from the chaise lounge to the bathtub.
The phone rang again, interrupting my planning.
Assuming it was Veronica calling back to change the time or something, I answered. “Hey.”
“Franki, we’ve-a got a problema.”
A mental image of Odette plunging a pin into the backside of my voodoo doll flashed through my aching head. “What is it, Nonna?”
“I just-a got a call from-a Luisa, the cousin of my cousin, Agatina. Pio called her, and he told-a her you’re a loose-a woman.”
I sighed and spread out on the chaise lounge. In Sicilian-American circles, it was a cardinal sin for a woman to have questionable virtue, and in terms of gravity it was second only to the inability to make a good ragù. “Nonna, all I told Pio was that I couldn’t go out with him because I have a date with another man. So—”
“A date? Dio mio! “
Her my God told me that the slight to my honor was old news.
“Who-a with-a? Bruno?”
“No, his name is Bradley. He’s the president of Pontchartrain Bank here in New Orleans.”
She let out a whistle like a sailor seeing a woman after six months at sea. “You did-a good.”
I basked in her praise. “Grazie.”
“Is-a he Italian?”
“He’s not.” I waited for the inevitable comment.
“Well, we can’t have-a it all-a, can-a we Franki?” She was so happy she practically crowed. “Now-a when is-a this date?”
“Um...” I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know, but I couldn’t lie because she would call me immediately after the date—probably even during—to get the details. “I’m not exactly sure.”
She gasped. “Not-a sure? You mean-a that you gave up a date with a fine-a man like-a Pio, and you don’t even have-a no date with-a Bradley?”
Fine man, my rear. “Bradley said he would call me this week, and he will.”
“Francesca Lucia Amato, you never turn-a down a date when you don’t have-a no date.”
“Have some faith, okay?”
“The only-a man I have-a the faith in, Franki, is-a the Pope.”
When my nonna mentioned the Pope, it was time to end the call. “I’ve gotta run, Nonna. I’ll call you right after the date. Ciao ciao!”
Next, I did what I should have done three phone calls earlier—I pressed the off button on my phone. Then I turned it back on because there was always the possibility that Bradley would call. Although, after talking to my nonna, I wasn’t feeling all that hopeful. Maybe I really did “have-a no date.” It wasn’t like Bradley had set a time and place, or anything. The more I thought about my dating prospects, the better that mimosa Veronica mentioned was sounding. But not the onion rings.
I agreed with my nonna on one point, though—I shouldn’t count on a date until I knew for certain that I had one. But I wasn’t ready to believe that the Pope was the only man a girl could trust, at least not yet. And I couldn’t afford to give in to defeat. Bradley Hartmann was going to call me whether I had to resort to Vulcan mind control, Jedi mind tricks, or even voodoo to make it happen.
9
“Jeez. It’s like a giant lightsaber in the sky.” I shielded my eyes from the noon sun that glared at me when I opened my front door. I recoiled into my apartment, rummaged in my purse, and pulled out my tortoiseshell sunglasses for the walk across the street to Thibodeaux’s. After donning my shades to block the sunlight—and the equally harsh reality of the cemetery—I set off on the one hundred-foot trek. The street was deserted, so I stepped from the yard into the street.
A twelve-year-old kid on a bike appeared from out of nowhere and sped by not two inches in front of me.
I flailed my arms like a tipsy tightrope walker, landed squarely on my rear end, and, voluntarily, lay down in the grass to regroup.
“You’re lucky I have extra cushioning, kid,” I shouted from my supine position with a raised, clenched fist. If I could’ve stayed on my feet, it might’ve gotten ugly between him and me.
After a few minutes of contemplating the clouds, I stood, brushed the dead grass from my clothes, and walked my bruised behind to the bar. At the entrance, I paused to summon the strength needed to endure Veronica’s ever-effervescent Sunday afternoon chatter. When I pushed open the door, I spotted her sitting at the bar with her back to me. She was sporting a Madonna ponytail á la The Blond Ambition Tour, a sunny yellow velour tracksuit, and matching yellow tennis shoes.
I slid onto the barstool next to her and caught a revolting whiff of fresh air and sunshine. “Hey.”
She gave me the onceover. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” I placed my bag on the bar.
“You look a little rough.” She smirked and sipped mimosa from a straw. “Been rolling in the hay with anyone I know?”
I looked at her for a few seconds and realized that I must’ve had grass in my hair. “Give me a break, all right?” I finger-combed my long brown locks. “Within the past twelve hours, I’ve had run-ins with a voodoo priestess, Ryan Hunter, a Sicilian guy, a crazy kid on a bike, a bottle of Limoncello, and my nonna.” I didn’t mention the jar of Nutella because it just made me look pathetic.
“Oh wow, your nonna?” Veronica was unfazed by the mention of the voodoo priestess et al. “What did she want?”
“To alert me to the earth-shattering news that my womanly honor was besmirched after I jilted one of her saintly Sicilians.” I started to remove my sunglasses but thought better of it. The dimly lit bar seemed excessively bright.
“Your womanly honor.” Veronica belly-laughed and slapped the bar. “That’s a good one.”
The glare I shot her was not unlike that harsh sun.
Phillip the bartender approached. “What can I get ya?”
The thought of alcohol made me feel like crawling back to that spot in the grass to lie down. “A club soda with lime.”
Phillip walked away, muttering to himself.
“So what did Ryan say about London?” Veronica fished a piece of orange out of her mimosa with a toothpick. “I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since you called.”
“He said that he came home one day and found Jessica on the phone with someone he thought was an Italian girlfriend. She was really angry and reminded the caller that she wasn’t in London when something or other happened.”
“When what happened?”
I gave her a look. “Don’t you think I would’ve mentioned that if I knew?”
She shrugged and popped the orange into her mouth. “So, why does Ryan think she was talking to an Italian woman?”
Phillip passed me my drink, and I nodded my thanks. “Because she said an Italian woman’s name.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. She could have just been gossiping about the woman or mentioning her for some reason.”
“True.” I nursed my club soda. My brain was in no mood to hypothesize about the case.
“Hey, Phillip,” Veronica shouted into my ear. “Can I get an order of onion rings?”
“Sure thing, Ronnie.”
“Sometimes, you just need a little greasy food in your diet, right Franki?”
I tilt-nodded, and my stomach also tilted at the mention of grease, but not just because of my hangover. My first impression of Phillip was that he looked a little greasy himself.
And since the last time I was in the bar, I’d learned through the neighborhood grapevine that he was in an environmentally conscious grunge rock band that didn’t believe in showering more than once a week, to save water. Unfortunately, Phillip also did double duty at Thibodeaux’s as the cook.
Veronica leaned her arms on the bar. “Normally I’d say that Jessica’s phone call was probably nothing. But it is interesting that London keeps coming up, and in such negative contexts. By the way, I’m going to call the London College of Fashion first thing in the morning. I hope they have some information for us, because as of right now, we’ve got nothing on Jessica’s past.”
“David hasn’t been able to find anything?”
“Oh, he’s found some things. Too many.” She waved her drink toothpick.
Veronica might not have looked Italian, but her habit of talking with her hands gave her heritage away. “What do you mean ‘too many’?”
“He googled ‘Jessica Evans’ and got over three hundred thousand hits, so I told him to not to bother checking the links. With his part-time schedule, it could take him weeks or even months to find one related to our Jessica Evans.” She waved the toothpick close to my cheek.
Keeping a watchful eye on the wooden weapon, I asked, “Did he try narrowing down the search with any personal information, like her address?”
“Yeah, but that didn’t turn up anything concrete either.” She looked down at the bar. “At this point, we really don’t have much to go on. We know Ryan doesn’t have a clue about Jessica’s personal life, and the only information on the police report was her Louisiana driver license number and birth date.”
Surprised by the downturn in Veronica’s chipper demeanor, I mustered up as much positivity as I could. “Well, that’s good, right? Since we have her birth date, we can get her birth certificate and find out her parents’ names. Annabella said that Jessica referred to herself as a Louisiana native when she was talking to the man at the store, so the certificate should be easy to find.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not good. Louisiana doesn’t have a public birth index like Texas. It’s a closed record state, so only Jessica or her parents could request her birth certificate, not us.”
“Oh. What about Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram? Or wait. I bet she had a LinkedIn page.” I hoped that Veronica would perk up soon because being perky on her behalf was exhausting.
“Nope, not even a Pinterest page.” Veronica gave a wild thrust of her toothpick.
I scooted my barstool a few inches away from her. “Maybe she’s going by her middle name?”
“Could be. It’s also possible that she was using an assumed name.” She put the toothpick in its rightful place—on the counter.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” I laid my aching head down on my purse. “So what do we do next?”
“We hope the London College of Fashion has some information for us. Because if they don’t, we’re at a standstill in this case.”
Phillip slid a steaming basket of onion rings down the length of the bar.
I raised my head to avoid getting hit in the face and watched as the basket stopped in front of Veronica, who perked right up and clapped. “Nice sliding skills.”
She cast an admiring glance at Phillip. “I know. Want one, Franki?”
“Nah.” I eyed the basket with revulsion and suspicion.
“Now, tell me about this voodoo priestess.” Veronica bit into an onion ring.
“First off, it was one of the craziest experiences of my life! Her name is Odette Malveaux and—”
“Odette Malveaux,” a familiar chain-smoker voice exclaimed. “You into voodoo, Miss Franki?”
I turned to see Glenda in all her splendor. She wore what looked like a Kmart knockoff of J Lo’s iconic jungle-green Versace dress—the one with the neckline that plunged several inches past the navel—only Glenda’s plunged a good two inches lower, almost past something else.
I closed my jaw—with the help of my hand. “I can barely handle the mysticism of yoga, so no voodoo for me.”
Glenda cackled as she took a seat beside me.
Veronica touched the sleeve of Glenda’s dress. “What a stunning look.”
That’s one way to describe it.
“Thank you, sugar.” Glenda crossed her legs and exposed six-inch-heeled stripper shoes with clear plastic, hollow bases that had writing on them. “So Miss Franki, how do you know Mambo Odette?”
“I met her at Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo last night.” I tried to decipher the word on Glenda’s shoes. “Do you know her?”
“Sure do. A long time ago, I consulted with her about a man I was seeing.”
I lowered my sunglasses, intrigued. “Did you want to get even with him or something?”
“Get even? Real voodoo isn’t about hexes and sacrifices and things. But that’s a common misconception thanks to the way Hollywood has sensationalized it. Voodoo is about serving others, Miss Franki, especially the poor, the sick, and the lonely. And Odette is one of the finest priestesses in all of Louisiana when it comes to matters of the heart, I guarantee you that.”
I wondered how in the world that terrifying woman could have become an expert on love.
“Besides, if I wanted to get even with a man, I wouldn’t need any help. Know what I mean, jelly bean?”
I nodded. I had no doubt that Glenda could be a formidable foe. “Hey, before I forget, what do your shoes say?”
“Tips. There’s a slot for inserting bills right below the word, see?” She spun around on her barstool and kicked a long, skinny leg out in front of her with the ease of a Rockette dancer so that I could examine her shoe, up close and personal.
“Why would clients put the tips in your shoe?”
“Because they’re too damn drunk to reach the G-string.” Glenda leaned over the counter and waved Phillip over with a dollar bill, like a customer in a strip club.
Veronica gave a tip of her head. “That’s good business.”
Phillip approached to take Glenda’s drink order and flinched as he got a full-frontal of her in the dress. “The usual?”
“No, handsome, I’ll take a mint julep with extra powdered sugar.” She gave him a cougarish wink. “I’m feeling like a Southern belle today.”
A hoop-skirted Glenda flashed through my mind. Never happen. She’d suffocate in all that clothing.
“You know, Miss Franki, I also consulted with Mambo Odette about a voodoo dance I used to do. It was inspired by Marie Laveau.”
“Really?”
“I modeled the dress after Marie Laveau’s own clothes.”
Despite my better judgment, I wanted to know more. “Was it made of raffia and seashells like the voodoo priestess costumes I saw on sale for Mardi Gras the other day?”
“Hell no.” Glenda wrinkled her mouth in disgust. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheap outfit like that.”
Veronica shook her head. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“It was a long muslin dress with a tignon that had seven knots pointing up like a crown.”
Phillip appeared with the mint julep, blushing schoolboy style.
“Thank you, handsome.” Glenda made eyes at him while licking the sugar from the entire rim of the glass.
My stomach tilted again. I had to get her to put her tongue back into her mouth. “What’s a tignon?”
Veronica, who was the resident fashion expert of every culture and era, turned to me. “It’s the type of headdress Marie Laveau wore.” She turned to Glenda. “What color was the dress?”
“White to symbolize inner purity, and I had a boa around my neck.”
I chewed my soda straw. “I knew women in New Orleans liked to wear boas during Mardi Gras, but I didn’t realize that voodoo queens wore them too.”
Glenda stared at me like I’d sprouted another head. “A boa constrictor. You know, a snake?”
“Oh, of course.” My cheeks grew warm.
Veronica’s brow creased.
“What did the boa symbolize?”
“Well, in voodoo, the snake represents the practitioner’s spiritual connection to the otherworld. So, when I wore the snake, it meant that if you connected with me, it’d be outta this world.” Glenda laughed and slapped me on the back so hard that it felt like my brain rattled in my skull.
It was time to put me out of my increasing misery. “Hey, Phillip. How about a Bloody Mary?”
His face drooped as though he didn’t want to return to our area.
Go figure. I turned to Glenda. “Was the snake real?”
“Of course the snake was real. But this wasn’t no Tijuana donkey show, this was a class act.” She slurped the last of her mint julep and let out a tremendous belch. “The snake was just a live accessory to cover my lady parts, no more no less.”
I recoiled. “Wait, you wanted your, um, lady parts covered?”
She gaped at my lack of stripper sense. “Well of course, child, until the big reveal.”
I considered asking how she got a live snake to cover her privates but decided to quit while I was ahead.
“Here you go.” Phillip said placed the Bloody Mary in front of me, averting his eyes.
“Thanks. This should cover my tab.” I shoved fifteen dollars under his chin so he could see it.
He took the money and scurried to safety.
Veronica blinked. “Are you leaving already, Franki? You just got your drink.”
“I know. I’m going to finish it and head home.”
“What are you going to do today?”
I stared at the glass. “This drink. This is all I’m going to do.”
“Miss Franki’s a real live wire, Miss Ronnie.”
“Right?” Veronica’s tone was as dry as my club soda.
I ignored them both and tossed back half my drink.
Glenda leaned forward to look at Veronica. “Whaddya say you and I celebrate our inner Southern belles by doing some corset shopping at Trashy Diva?”
Veronica beamed like her yellow tracksuit. “That’s a terrific idea.”
And the perfect place for this mismatched duo.
“Good. This one’s on me, Miss Ronnie.” She pulled some crumpled bills from her lacy black bra and dropped them on the bar. “I’ll see you later, handsome.” She shot a knowing look at Phillip and pulled a short red cigarette holder covered in cubic zirconias from her purse. Placing it between pursed lips, she exited the bar shaking her bony hips.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 11