Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  “See you tomorrow, Franki.” Veronica waved and followed Glenda.

  I finished my drink in one gulp and headed out. As soon as I got outside, I looked for cars and wayward biker kids before crossing the street. My only goal for the rest of the day was to make it to my bed without incident.

  Midway to my apartment, my phone rang instead of barking. Grazie a dio I changed that ringtone. I looked at the display and saw the theme of the day—Unknown. So much for making it home unscathed.

  I continued walking and debated whether to take the call or just go inside and hide. Then I reminded myself that it could’ve been Bradley and tapped Answer.

  “Hello?” I used a sultry voice that was only mildly tinged with apprehension.

  “Hey Franki, it’s Bradley.”

  “Oh thank God,” I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

  “What did you say? The phone cut out for a second.”

  “Just ‘hi.’“ I uttered silent thanks to my cell phone for preventing me from making a fool of myself. I inserted my key into the lock and opened my front door.

  “Listen, I was hoping to take you to dinner next weekend, but I have to leave town Thursday on business, and I won’t be back until Sunday.”

  “Oh, I understand.” I closed the door and tossed my purse in frustration on the chaise lounge. Was he trying to back out of the date?

  “But if you’re free on Tuesday night, I’d like to take you to a restaurant in the Quarter.”

  “Of course I’m free.” Smooth, Franki, real smooth.

  “Great. They serve classic New Orleans cuisine, things like gumbo, jambalaya, and red beans and rice. They even have my absolute favorite, the muffuletta.”

  The muffuletta? I stopped in my tracks and placed my hand on the wall. Then I drew it back. The fuzzy wallpaper freaked me out. “You’re not Sicilian are you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just checking.” Relieved, I bent down to ruffle the fur on Napoleon’s head. “That sounds wonderful, Bradley. I’ve been dying to eat some good Cajun food.”

  “Well, if you like Cajun food, they also have crawdads and even alligator for the more adventurous eaters.”

  I shot up arrowlike and gripped my spinning head. Crawdads? Alligator? What was it Odette had said about the bayou? I tried to keep my tone casual. “This place isn’t on the bayou is it?”

  “No, it’s on Bourbon Street, but it’s called Le Bayou.” He paused. “Have you been there before?”

  It was all coming back to me. Odette had told me in no uncertain terms not to let a man take me to the bayou. I was supposed to stay away from the bayou and everything in it, i.e., crawdads and alligators. Should I suggest another restaurant?

  “Franki, is everything okay?”

  I had to hide my fears about Odette’s voodoo predictions or risk blowing the date. “Yes, absolutely. I guess my phone is acting up again. So, what time on Tuesday?”

  “How about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up your place.”

  “I’ll text you my address.”

  “Sounds great. I’m looking forward to it.” There was a hint of devastatingly sexy in his voice.

  “Me too.” I tried to match his sexy tone, but it came out suspicious. “Bye, Bradley.”

  I hung up and went to my bedroom. As I crawled into bed I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn’t from the Bloody Mary. I was probably overreacting about my encounter with Mambo Odette, but it was odd that right after she warned me about a man taking me to the bayou it seemed to be happening. On the other hand, Bradley wasn’t taking me to an actual bayou. It was a restaurant in the French Quarter. And nothing and no one was going to prevent me from going. All I had to do was avoid the crawdads and the alligator, and everything would be fine.

  Wouldn’t it?

  10

  As I drove to work the next morning, I couldn’t help but be in a good mood despite the disturbing developments around Odette Malveaux’s predictions. My hangover was gone, the sun was shining, and I had a date with Bradley Hartmann. To celebrate, I’d put the top down on my Mustang and popped my “Beauty and the Beat” CD by The Go-Go’s into the stereo. Nothing like ‘80s girl power pop to make you leave your voodoo cares behind.

  I pulled up to the office and couldn’t believe my luck—as if by magic, there was a parking space right in front. This day is getting better and better.

  I parallel-parked, opened the car door, and started to get out, but I was knocked back into my seat by the appetizing aroma of marinara sauce from Nizza restaurant. Yeah, it’s going to be a great day.

  I bounded up the stairs to the office singing “Lust to Love” at the top of my lungs. In my mind, I had the same smooth and powerful voice as Belinda Carlisle, but in reality I sounded a lot like a female Neil Young—with a head cold.

  I entered the office, and Veronica sashay-ran into the lobby, her forehead creased with worry.

  Instead of alarm bells, I heard the barking from my ex-ringtone. “What’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t you hear that?” She exited the office and went to the stairs. “It sounded like a dog yelping in pain.”

  Maybe I had heard barking. I stood still and listened, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Then it dawned on me—she was talking about my singing.

  I went to the stairwell. “Hey, Veronica?”

  She turned to look up at me from the bottom step.

  I hated to lie to my best friend, but if she thought my voice sounded like an injured animal, there was no way I was claiming it. “I think that sound you were hearing was the squeaky brakes on a truck that went by.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Veronica sighed and climbed the stairs. “Thank goodness.”

  “You’re here early.” I changed the subject even though my ego was still smarting from the indirect insult.

  She reentered the lobby. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to call London as soon as possible.”

  “And?” I followed her to her office.

  She took a seat behind her desk. “There’s no record of a Jessica Evans at the London College of Fashion.”

  I dropped into the armchair. “Well, like you said yesterday, she might’ve been using an assumed name. Maybe that’s why the school has no record of her.”

  “Or she never went there at all. I mean, that salesgirl Annabella could’ve misunderstood what she overheard at the store that night.”

  “True, but I think we should check with the police.”

  Her brow went up. “What for?”

  “Because, unlike us, they can get a court order to obtain Jessica’s birth certificate. So, if she was using an assumed name, they might already know that. Why don’t we ask your crime analyst friend for an update on the police’s case?”

  Veronica shook her head. “No, Betty puts her job on the line every time I ask her for help, so I only use her as an absolute last resort. For now, the best thing we can do is shift gears.”

  “How so?”

  She opened her day planner. “We’ve got to get back out there and find the store that sold the killer the scarf.”

  “Sounds logical. Besides,” I paused for effect, “I need to buy a new outfit for my date.”

  She gasped and leaned forward. “Your what?”

  “My date.” I hid a smile. “Jeez, Veronica, is it really so shocking that someone would ask me out?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’m surprised you’re going on a date so soon after Vince.”

  “Why?” I turned away so she wouldn’t see me tear up. “It’s not like I need time to get over that cheating bastard.”

  “Well, that’s what I mean.” Her tone had gone soft. “Are you sure you’re ready to trust a man again?”

  “Of course.” Although, after thinking about it for a split second, I realized I wasn’t sure at all.

  “If that’s the case, then I’m glad.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m just w
orried about you.”

  “Relax. Bradley isn’t one of those deceptively sincere types I usually go for. He’s a genuinely good guy. I can tell. The only thing we have to worry about is what I’m going to wear.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Le Bayou restaurant.” I sidestepped the probably insignificant matter of the warning I’d received from Mambo Odette about men taking me to the bayou. Veronica had no patience for my Sicilian-inspired superstitions, so she was sure to be annoyed by my voodoo misgivings, even though a healthy respect for the unknown was nothing to scoff at.

  “You can always wear a basic LBD. It’s perfect first-date material.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t have one.”

  “What?” Her pitch neared a scream. “We’re going to have to take care of that right now. I saw one at Ann Taylor the other day that would look amazing on you.” She opened her laptop. “Let me see if I can find it on their website.”

  For Veronica, the little black dress was a simple, yet fabulous wardrobe item for any occasion. But for me, the LBD looked like what I would wear underneath my dress—a Spanx slip. I needed more coverage to feel at ease with a new man, not to mention the new roll that had appeared on my stomach since moving to New Orleans. But Veronica had an excellent eye for fashion, so if she knew of a dress that would be flattering on me, it was worth taking a look.

  The lobby bell interrupted our style search.

  Veronica was so immersed in online shopping that she didn’t react, so I rose and went to the lobby.

  Ryan Hunter held a large box and a woman’s red crocodile handbag that must have been worth the GDP of a small country.

  “Hello.” My greeting was intentionally cool. I wanted to comment on his bag, but I didn’t dare use sarcasm on this guy for fear of what he would do. “You know, Veronica was going to call you today with your report—”

  “I’m not here about that.”

  His voice reminded me of the barking on my ex-ringtone. “Then what can I help you with?”

  He placed the box on a nearby chair. “I found something in Jessica’s things that might help my case.”

  Inexplicably, adrenaline surged in my chest. “Let me get Veronica.”

  I hurried to her office and poked my head inside. “It’s Ryan.”

  Her eyes rose from the laptop.

  “He’s found something of Jessica’s that he thinks may be important.”

  She stood and followed me into the lobby.

  “Hi Ryan.” Veronica’s tone was professional, but distant. “Franki said you’ve found something?”

  “Yeah, last night I packed up Jessica’s stuff to bring it by today. I dropped one of the boxes as I was putting it into my trunk, and this handbag fell out. When I went to pick it up, I noticed the corner of a white envelope sticking out from between the interior lining of the purse and the exterior leather. Right here.” He showed us an area of the bag where the stitching had given way.

  Veronica’s eyes widened. “What was in it?”

  “This old letter.” He pulled an envelope from inside his suit jacket and handed it to her. “It’s postdated June 27, 1988.”

  She pulled the letter from the envelope and scanned the page.

  My heart thumped so hard I was sure they could hear it. I had a gut feeling that the letter contained a key clue to Jessica’s past. Plus, the whole idea of a secret letter made me feel like a sleuth in a mystery novel. “What does it say?”

  “It’s really short. I’ll read it.” She cleared her throat. “Barbara, I got laid off from the refinery last week. I’ll send you money for Angelica when I can. But like it or not I got a new wife and kid to take care of now. Sincerely, Bill.”

  “Wait.” I looked over Veronica’s shoulder. “Who are Bill and Barbara again?”

  She examined the envelope. “Well, they have the same last name, Evangelista.” She let the arm holding the envelope drop to her side and looked at me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m not thinking anything.” My mind always went blank whenever people expected me to guess their thoughts.

  Ryan shot me a contemptuous look. “Nice intuitive skills.”

  I pretended not to hear him. “Was Jessica maybe blackmailing these people?”

  Veronica folded the letter. “I don’t know, but now I’m convinced she was hiding something.” She turned to Ryan. “Does any of this make any sense to you? Have you heard these names before?”

  He shook his head. “No, never. Maybe this Angelica was one of Jessica’s friends or a cousin or something.”

  The door burst open.

  “Hey, party people.” David entered the lobby and tossed his backpack on his workstation.

  Veronica smacked the letter against her thigh. “David, one of these days we’re literally going to die from fright.”

  He hung his head. “Uh, sorry.”

  I shot Veronica a drop-it look. There was no reason to embarrass the kid in front of a client. “Don’t worry about it, David.”

  Ryan, true to arrogant form, didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence.

  Veronica looked at the clock by the door. “I hate to run, Ryan, but I need to call the London School of Fashion before they close to find out whether they have a record of an Angelica Evangelista. I called earlier this morning, and they had no record of Jessica.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.” Ryan rubbed his chin. “Okay, I’ll bring up the other boxes from my car, and then I need to get to the office. But can I count on one of you to actually update me today on what you find out?”

  “Of course.” Veronica turned to me. “Franki, fill David in on everything and help him do an Internet search on Angelica Evangelista, okay?”

  “Sure.” I nodded a frosty farewell in Ryan’s direction. “David, let’s go use my computer.”

  “Right on.”

  I went to the hallway, and David followed. I didn’t want to have to deal with Ryan when he returned with the remaining boxes, and I was sure David felt the same.

  I entered my office and gestured to my desk. “You’re the resident research guru. You take my chair. By the way, what time do you have class today?”

  “Uh, I have Brazilian Dance at one.” He took a seat and opened my laptop.

  “Brazilian Dance? I thought you were a computer science major.”

  His gaze darted from mine to the floor. “Not a lot of girls, like, take comp sci courses.”

  “Got it.” I smiled both at the thought of him taking classes to meet women and at the mental image of his long, lanky frame doing Brazilian dance moves.

  His fingers flew over the keyboard, and he pressed the return key. “So, I just googled ‘Angelica Evangelista’ and got almost eight thousand hits. Let’s add ‘New Orleans’ to narrow the search.”

  I walked behind him and looked at the screen. “Less than a hundred results. That’s more doable.”

  We were interrupted by the clacking of Veronica’s Manolo Blahniks, which were quickly approaching my office.

  She burst into the room. “Incredible news. A student named Angelica Evangelista graduated from the London College of Fashion in 2008. Can you believe it?”

  I looked at David and back at her. “Did you find out anything else?”

  “Yes. Angelica got a bachelor’s degree in Fashion Management.”

  I sat on the corner of my desk. “Which is exactly what Jessica Evans did for a living.”

  Veronica’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly.”

  “Is that a four-year degree?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  I did a rapid calculation in my head. “Well, then the year would be about right, because Jessica was twenty-six, and that would make her around twenty-two years old when she graduated.”

  “Could Angelica be Jessica?” Veronica spoke as though she didn’t dare believe it.

  “I’m beginning to wonder that myself.” I rose and returned to my position behind David. “Try searching ‘Angel
ica Evangelista’ and ‘London.’“

  Veronica joined me to see the search results.

  “Whoa,” David breathed.

  Veronica and I didn’t need to ask him why. The first link was a Wikipedia page entitled “Murder of Immacolata Di Salvo.”

  “What is this?” I said, stunned.

  David clicked the link, and we all leaned in to read the screen.

  Immacolata Di Salvo, an American exchange student from New Orleans, Louisiana, was murdered on May 1, 2008. Di Salvo, aged twenty-two, was found dead in her dorm room in London, where she attended the London College of Fashion.

  I glanced through the rest of the article but didn’t see the name Angelica Evangelista. “David, scroll down. I want to see how this Angelica person is connected to the murder.”

  He searched for “Angelica” and found her name in the middle of the page.

  “There.” I pointed to the cursor highlighting the name. “I’ll read it aloud. Angelica Evangelista, an American exchange student from New Orleans, Louisiana, and the flat mate of Di Salvo, found Di Salvo’s body after returning home from a trip abroad at 3 a.m. There were no signs of forced entry in the dorm room, which led police to believe that Di Salvo knew her killer.”

  “Oh. My. God.” I sat on the desk.

  Veronica stared at me in shock. “Could this be related to our case?”

  “Dude,” David exclaimed.

  I started and almost fell to the floor. “What?”

  “It mentions Stewart Preston. I totally remember hearing about this when I was a kid.”

  I couldn’t help but repress a smile at the notion that David was anything but a kid in the present.

  Veronica eyed the screen. “Who’s Stewart Preston?”

  “His family is rich. I’m talkin’ uber rich. His father, Stewart Preston, III, owns, like, half of New Orleans.”

  “What does he do?”

  “I never really knew. One second.” David opened a new page and typed “Stewart Preston, III” into the search field. He found a Wikipedia page on Preston and scanned the contents. “Looks like he owns a bunch of textile companies.”