Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  “What? Why not? Your date is tomorrow night.”

  “I wasn’t in the mood to dress shop.”

  Veronica sighed. “What did I tell you about keeping your personal and professional lives separate?”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Then go back to Ann Taylor and buy that dress.”

  “Or what?” I was half kidding, half not.

  “Or I’m going to have Glenda dress you for your date.”

  I got a mental image of me opening the door to Bradley in a black leather bustier, a gold lamé miniskirt, purple stripper shoes, and a green boa, with a long black cigarette holder in my left hand. “I’m on my way.”

  At eight forty-five p.m., I strolled through Lenton’s at Lakeside Shopping Center listening to the loudspeaker message announcing the mall closure in fifteen minutes and carrying the Ann Taylor LBD in a size twelve. The dress fit to perfection, which had done wonders for my mood. I’d even splurged on a pair of black pumps to celebrate the occasion.

  Right before the exit, I spotted two large tables piled high with merchandise marked seventy-five percent off. Of course, I’d already maxed out my meager clothes allowance for the next four months with the purchases I’d made, but who could pass up the opportunity to buy clothing at a quarter of the price? It would’ve been financially irresponsible of me not to try to find something at those prices.

  I sorted through the piles and saw the sleeve of what looked like a cute mulberry sweater tangled in a mass of clothes. I put my bags on the floor to unravel the knotted items. I set to work and caught sight of fabric with a black-and-white checked pattern in the mix. My heart raced as I worked to free the item from the other clothes.

  It was a scarf—and it looked exactly like the one in the crime scene photo, except that it had a mauve border.

  With scarf in hand, I picked up my bags and ran to a cash register. A heavyset woman with a nametag that read “Keisha” was busy putting anti-theft devices on a stack of cardigans. “Didya need help findin’ somethin’?”

  “Yes, I was wondering if this scarf came in any other colors.” I placed it on the counter.

  “One minute while I check.” Keisha snapped another device onto a cardigan. She picked up a scan gun, scanned the barcode on the price tag, and looked at her cash register screen for what seemed like an eternity. She furrowed her brow. “Looks like it came in one other color.”

  By this time, my heart beat so fast that I thought I might faint. “Can you tell me which color?”

  “Is says lye-moan-sell-low,” she syllabified.

  “What color is that?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me. That’s all it says.”

  “Do you mind if I look?”

  She stepped to the side and splayed her arms. “Be my guest.”

  I rushed behind the counter to the screen. After scanning through a series of product names and lengthy codes comprised of letters and numbers, I saw it.

  Style: Limoncello.

  I threw my arms around Keisha. “It’s yellow!”

  She pulled away and took a step backward. “O-kaaay.”

  “Listen, Keisha, does Lenton’s keep records of its sales?”

  “Of course. But you’d have to talk to the store manager about that.”

  “Is the manager here now? It’s important.”

  She looked at me for a moment, and her big brown eyes narrowed. “Hey, you’re not a detective are you?”

  “Yes, more or less.” I hoped the slight exaggeration would convince her to help me.

  “Is this a cheatin’ husband case, or somethin’?”

  “It’s much more serious than that.”

  Her eyes bugged from their sockets. “Murder?”

  I bit my lower lip.

  She nodded. “The manager will be here tomorrow morning at nine thirty. Ask for Ed Orlansky.”

  12

  “I’m just thrilled that you found the scarf store.” Veronica threw her hands into the air as we sped down Interstate 10 East toward Slidell in her Audi the next morning.

  “Me too.” I watched to make sure she put her hands back on the steering wheel. Luckily, she did.

  She veered into the left lane, cutting off a jacked-up pick-up truck with tractor-trailer tires in the process. “What time did you say we could call the manager?”

  I looked over my left shoulder at the road-raging truck driver, who hit the gas and swerved into the middle lane. I shrunk into my seat, but not far enough to miss him saluting us with his middle finger as he roared around us. “Keisha told me he would be in at around nine thirty today.”

  Veronica glanced at the clock on the dashboard, oblivious to what had occurred. “That was ten minutes ago.”

  “I know. Let’s give him another five minutes to get settled in.”

  “But we’re going to be at the Di Salvo’s house in fifteen minutes.” She stared at me for way too long.

  “All right. I’ll call him.” I straightened in the seat and pulled my phone from my purse. “You just watch where you’re going. Eyes back on the road, missy.”

  She rolled said eyes. “You know I’m a trained racecar driver.”

  I gave her a look. “A few hours on the Ferrari racetrack in Italy doesn’t make you Mario Andretti.” I searched my phone contacts for the number for Ed Orlansky that Keisha had given me. “And honestly, when you get on the highway, you drive like you’ve had one too many skinny margaritas.”

  “Whatever you say, Nonna.”

  I ignored her, like my grandmother would do. “Now, what should I say to this guy?”

  “Try to get us on his calendar for today or tomorrow, and don’t tell him you’re a PI if you can help it. Otherwise, he might not agree to meet us.”

  “Then how, exactly, are we going to convince him to spend hours and hours scrolling through electronic store receipts for all the people who bought that scarf once he finds out we’re not with the police?”

  “You leave that to me.” She tossed her blonde mane.

  “Gladly.” I tapped the number and put the phone to my ear. Veronica ran a charm offensive that would rival that of even the savviest Washington political strategist. It was based on what I called the “bat-and-twirl effect,” an irresistibly seductive combination of batting her eyelashes while twirling her dazzling golden locks around her fingers. The one and only time I’d tried it on a guy, he told me that I shouldn’t tug on my hair because it made my eyes twitch.

  “Is it ringing?”

  I shook my head. “Voicemail.”

  “Hang up.”

  I pressed End. “Why?”

  “He’s the manager of a huge department store, so if you leave a message saying that you’re investigating a local crime, he’ll probably contact the police to verify that you work for them.”

  “And then he won’t call me back when he finds out I’m not a police officer.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So, how do you want to handle this?”

  “We know he’s supposed to be at work today. I think we should drop in unannounced after we meet with the Di Salvos.”

  We both jumped at the unexpected sound of my new Bootylicious ringtone. It was better than the barking because it made me feel good about my curves, but it was still startling. On the display was the all-too-familiar Unknown.

  “Maybe this is him.” I tapped Answer. “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello,” a male voice exclaimed a little too animatedly. “Is this Francesca?”

  I shook my head at Veronica. The caller was definitely not the Lenton’s manager, because the only people who called me Francesca were my relatives or my prospective Sicilian dates. And this was no relative. “This is she.”

  “Fantastic. I’m Bruno Messina, and my mother, Santina, is friends with your nonna.”

  My heart sank, and I felt myself turning red. I glanced at Veronica and shrank in my seat. I wanted to get this call over with, but he sounded so excited that I actually felt kind of bad about intending
to turn him down. “Yes, my nonna told me you’d be calling.”

  “Great. Listen, I’m calling to invite you to my house for dinner tonight.”

  What is it with these guys asking me out on the day of the date?

  “My mamma is making her Sicilian specialty, arancini.”

  The thought of the deep-fried balls of rice, tomato sauce, meat, and cheese distracted me from the conversation, but I shook myself from my fried-food daydream and got back to the task at hand.

  “Thanks for the invitation, Bruno, but I already have plans for this evening.” Halfway hoping he’d think I was a loose woman like Pio had, I decided to clarify. “A date.”

  “Ah.” His tone was less enthusiastic. Then he chuckled. “Well, we could meet after your date—for a nightcap.”

  Seriously? “That would be disrespectful to the man I’m going out with, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t have to know? After all, what we don’t know doesn’t hurt us, right Franki?” He chuckled again.

  It was time to get down to the business of a brushoff by borrowing Pio’s infamous line. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is going to work out.”

  “I see. Mamma will be so disappointed.”

  My eyes narrowed at the Catholic-guilt-inducing Mamma line. “I’m sorry about that. Goodbye, Bruno.”

  “Goodbye?”

  The second I heard that uncertain “goodbye” I pressed End before he could bounce back with an exuberant “What about tomorrow morning?” Then I turned off my phone to be on the safe side.

  Veronica raised an eyebrow. “One of Nonna’s boys?”

  “Yes, and hopefully the last.” I sighed. “He just asked me out on a date for tonight at his house with his mother. I mean, how could my nonna think I would want to go out with a guy like that?”

  “You know the mentality of our grandmothers.” She turned into a neighborhood with small shotgun-style houses and covered porches. “Back in their day in Sicily, unmarried women our age had no expectations whatsoever of getting married. A warm body was more than zitelle like us could hope for.”

  “I know, I know. But what is it with men? I told this guy about my date tonight, and he actually suggested that I go out with him afterward on the sly.”

  “That’s his problem.” She slowed to scan the street addresses.

  “You think? If you ask me, cheating is fairly standard male behavior.”

  Veronica rolled the car to a stop in front of a modest-looking white house, pulled the keys from the ignition, and turned to face me. “You’ve had some bad luck with men, I agree. But you can’t make a blanket generalization like that. Really, Franki, you need to start rethinking your attitude about men, or you could blow it with Bradley before you even get started.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I snapped, wondering what had gotten into Veronica. Normally when she was right, she was gentler about it.

  “Good.” She opened the car door. “Now that that’s settled, we’re here.”

  I got out of the car and followed her up the sidewalk, noting the particulars of the Di Salvo home. It was small, no more than fifteen hundred square feet, with cracked and peeling white paint. The yard was overgrown with weeds, and a few of the windows were broken. I wondered whether the general state of neglect of the house had anything to do with the tragic events the family had endured.

  Veronica turned to me at the front door. “Ready?”

  “I suppose so.” But I wasn’t at all sure I was emotionally prepared for the meeting.

  She knocked and took a step back to wait.

  After a few seconds, a chubby young woman in heavy Goth makeup opened the door. Her dyed black hair was boyishly short, and her bangs were long and brushed to one side, covering her right eye. She stood staring at us with her exposed left eye.

  Veronica cleared her throat. “Hi. We have an appointment at ten with Maria Di Salvo?”

  “I know.” The young woman used her teeth to flick a silver stud in her tongue.

  I looked at her, unsure of whether I should be grossed out, irritated, or empathetic in light of everything she’d been through. “Can we come in?”

  She shrugged and turned to walk down the hallway, leaving the door wide open.

  Veronica entered first, and I followed, closing the door behind me. The entryway consisted of a hallway lined with family photos, a large white ceramic cross, and a painting of the Virgin Mary. At the end of the hallway was a cluster of photographs of family members in their caskets. Many of my elderly Italian relatives had similar pictures in their homes, so I was familiar with the old-fashioned custom. But there was one photograph in particular that caught my attention. It was of a raven-haired young woman with fair skin and full red lips, who looked more like a sleeping Disney princess than a dead person. It had been taken more recently, and in an unusual twist, there was another individual in the picture—a young, rather homely woman standing beside the coffin. I was certain that the deceased was Immacolata. But who was the woman standing next to her?

  I turned away from the photograph and saw the Goth girl glowering at me while slowly twisting her tongue stud with her hand.

  She let go of the stud and led me into a small living room where Veronica was already seated on a floral-patterned couch encased in plastic.

  As I took a seat beside my best friend, I noticed another cross on the wall behind the couch.

  “Hang on.” The girl disappeared down another hallway.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry she’s gone,” I whispered to Veronica. “She kind of gives me the creeps.”

  “It’s just the all-black effect of her hair, makeup, and clothes.”

  “No, it’s the all-black effect of her personality.”

  I scanned the room for any insights into the family, but aside from the cross, there wasn’t much to see. The floor was covered in beige carpeting, and there were two dingy avocado-green armchairs facing the couch. One of the armchairs had a worn footstool in front with some knitting needles and yarn on it. Between the two armchairs was a small table with a lamp and what appeared to be an old photo of the Di Salvo family.

  I rose and walked over to the photo to get a closer look. Then I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I turned and saw a woman in her mid-fifties entering the living room in a worn housecoat and slippers. She had gray hair and a grayish tone to her skin, but it was clear from her high cheekbones and sensual lips that she had been beautiful in her youth.

  She looked past Veronica and me, but not at anything in particular. “May I help you?”

  “Yes.” Veronica rose to her feet. “I’m Veronica Maggio, and this is my partner, Franki Amato.”

  Maria Di Salvo gave no sign that she recognized our names.

  Veronica gestured to me. “We’re the private investigators who called you about the Angelica Evangelista case?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Di Salvo.”

  She grasped it limply. “Call me Maria.”

  Veronica and I took our seats on the couch. The noise was so loud when we sat on the plastic that I almost didn’t hear Veronica ask, “Was that your daughter who greeted us at the door?”

  “Yes, that’s Domenica.” She let out a sigh as she took a seat in the armchair with the footstool.

  Veronica glanced at me, willing me not to comment. “And you have another daughter, right?”

  “I have two. The twins, Concetta and Immacolata.”

  Concetta must’ve been the woman in the photo who was standing next to Immacolata’s casket. “Immacolata had a twin sister?”

  “Yes, they’re fraternal twins. Concetta wanted to be here today, but she couldn’t leave the convent.”

  “She’s a nun?” I don’t know why, but I was surprised.

  “After Imma’s death, Concetta felt she had a calling to become a nun. She wanted to help others to honor Imma’s memory.”

  Veronica gave a sweet smile. “What a
selfless, loving gesture.”

  “Yes, I’m very proud of all my daughters. But I’m especially proud of what Concetta has become, especially after the agony of losing her twin.”

  “Which high school does Domenica attend?” I resisted the urge to ask why she wasn’t at school today.

  “Slidell High. She’s working toward her diploma and studying cosmetology at the same time.”

  Veronica licked her lips. “Can you tell us about Imma? We’d like to know more about her life in London.”

  “You mean, you want to know who murdered her,” Domenica interjected from the hallway.

  Maria gave a tired sigh. “Domenica…”

  “It was that sick son-of-a-bitch Stewart Preston.” Domenica was insensitive to the embarrassment, not to mention the pain, she was causing her mother.

  “Domenica, please.”

  Undaunted, she entered the room. “And the bastard killed Angelica too, because she knew he strangled Imma.”

  Veronica and I exchanged a look.

  “That’s enough now.” Maria’s firmness was surprising given her obvious state of depression. “I’d like to speak to these ladies alone.”

  I looked at Veronica, and then watched Domenica storm out.

  Maria turned to us. “I’m sorry about that.” She looked down at her lap for a moment. “She’s really been through a lot.”

  It made me feel awful that she felt she had to explain. “We understand.”

  “First her sister, then her father…”

  Veronica’s brow shot up. “Her father?”

  “Rosario passed away a few days after Stewart Preston was acquitted of Imma’s murder.” Maria wiped a tear with her index finger. “It was his heart.”

  I was stunned to hear of the loss of her husband. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He never really recovered from Imma’s death.” She suppressed a sob. “None of us did, but Rosario took it especially hard because he felt he should’ve been there to protect her.”

  I thought of my own dad and how he would’ve felt if anything had happened to me. “Fathers are especially protective of their daughters.”

  “Yes, and he was so upset when Imma started hanging out with Stewart.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her housecoat. “He told her to stay away from him, but she didn’t listen.”