Veronica leaned forward. “Why did he tell her to stay away from him? Did he know him?”
“No, but he knew of him.” She twisted the handkerchief with her hands. “Stewart is the son of a very wealthy New Orleans family. He was always in The Times-Picayune society pages with a new woman on his arm. He’d also been in the news after being arrested for several DWI’s and possession of the drug Ecstasy.”
I was confused. “So, did Imma meet him in New Orleans or London?”
“They met during London Fashion Week in 2007, the year before Imma died. There are fabric tradeshows in London at the same time as fashion week, and Stewart was there representing the family textile business. Imma never missed the fabric shows because she was majoring in fashion textiles. One thing led to another and then…”
Veronica pressed her temple. “Um, we’ve read about Immacolata’s case in the papers, and we’ve also seen reports of the trial. Do you believe Stewart is responsible for her death?”
“Yes.” Her tone was harsh, and she jerked the handkerchief. “They went to a party, and he took her back to her dorm. There were witnesses who testified that they saw him go upstairs with her to her room.”
“So there was no chance that she met someone else later that night after he left?” I asked.
“In our opinion, no. But the jury didn’t see it that way.” Anger had crept into her voice. “They acquitted him due to a lack of evidence.”
“What about Angelica? She testified at the trial, right?”
She stiffened. “She did, but she insisted that she didn’t know anything.”
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
Maria wiped her eyes. “At the time, I believed her. But later, she changed, and then Rosario wasn’t so sure anymore. He thought she knew something, but I just thought she felt guilty for not being able to help at the trial.”
The change in Angelica could be important. “How did she change?”
“Well, we’d known her since she was a child.” She shifted in her seat as she put the handkerchief back into her pocket. “She practically grew up in our house because her mother, Barbara, worked long hours as a seamstress. Angelica’s father ran off when she was small. So, we were like her family. But after the trial, she was different. She avoided us, and we eventually lost contact with her.”
She could’ve avoided them to escape the painful memories, but her behavior was curious. “Did you know she’d changed her name to Jessica Evans?”
“Not until the police came and questioned us. We didn’t even know she was back in New Orleans. We just assumed she’d gone to work in the fashion industry in some big city somewhere.”
“What about her mother?” Veronica asked. “Did you keep in touch with her?”
“She died a week before Imma’s death. Breast cancer. In fact, Angelica was returning to London from Barbara’s funeral here in Slidell the night Imma was murdered.”
So much tragedy. “An article we read indicated that Angelica returned from a trip abroad at three a.m. the morning of the murder. What was the official time of Imma’s death?”
Her gaze lowered to her lap. “Around one a.m.”
I wondered whether Angelica had actually witnessed the murder. “Do you think it’s possible that she returned earlier than she reported?”
Maria looked surprised. “Rosario asked that same question, but the police were able to verify the time she arrived with flight records and the taxi service that took her back to the dorm.”
Veronica scooted forward on the couch, causing the plastic to crackle. “Do you have any pictures of Angelica?”
Maria hesitated. “Well, we have the twins’ high school yearbooks.”
“Could we see one, the most recent?”
“Give me a minute.” She rose from the chair and shuffled down the hall.
“Did you get the feeling she was hiding something?” I whispered.
“Yeah.”
“I wonder what it could be? I mean, we just asked to see some pictures.”
Veronica opened her mouth to reply but stopped.
Domenica and Maria were arguing in a back room.
I strained to listen but couldn’t make out a word.
A few minutes later, Maria returned to the living room, flushed. She handed a yearbook to Veronica. “Here you are. Angelica would’ve been a senior that year, the same as the twins.”
Veronica flipped through the pages as I looked on. First she went to the Ds to the class pictures of Concetta and Immacolata. The difference in appearance between the twins was striking. Imma was an exotic beauty with almond-shaped eyes, full lips and high cheekbones, but Concetta was plain with a round face, close-set eyes, and a pencil-thin mouth.
She turned the page to the Es and stopped. It wasn’t hard to locate Angelica’s picture—not only because she was a dead ringer for Jessica Evans—but also because there was a word scrawled across it in red ink—puttana, the Italian word for “whore.” Whoever had written the insult had gone over it several times with the pen, tearing the photo.
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Maria rose from her seat and walked into the adjoining kitchen. “I have another picture of her.”
She returned with a brown billfold and opened it to reveal a small, black-and-white photo. “There, that’s her.” She pointed to a young blonde in a sundress standing beside Immacolata and Concetta. “It was taken at a family barbecue.”
Even though Maria suspected Angelica of having information about Imma’s death, she carried her picture in her wallet. I realized that instead of losing one daughter the night Imma was strangled, Maria Di Salvo had actually lost two.
“Barbara made that dress for her,” she said softly. “She hated it.”
I remembered Angelica’s penchant for expensive designer clothes. “Why? Because it was homemade?”
“Most of her clothes were homemade, or they were purchased at yard sales. And they were a constant reminder to her that she was poor. She always used to say that she was going to do whatever she had to do to make money when she grew up so that she could buy herself expensive clothes.”
I offered a wan smile. “And she did.”
“But that’s not why she hated the dress.”
Veronica looked up. “Oh?”
“She hated it because it was yellow.”
My gut gave a little kick. “Yellow?”
“Yes, when she was a little girl, her mother told her that yellow was her father Bill’s favorite color. You see, Barbara still loved Bill even though he’d run out on her and Angelica. I know because Barbara used to tell me that Bill would come home to them one day, and when he did, she wanted them to look nice for him. So she made Jessica wear yellow, and often.” Maria looked at her lap and grimaced. “But as the years passed and it became obvious that Bill wasn’t coming back, Angelica began to despise yellow. She wore it to make her mother happy, but she always said it was the color of cowards.”
Yellow is the color of cowards. My mind began to race like a black-and-white checked flag had been waved in front of it—or the black-and-white checked scarf with the Limoncello yellow border that was wrapped around Angelica’s neck in that horrible crime scene photo.
Had the killer known of Angelica’s hatred for the color yellow?
13
“What’s Orlansky doing back there?” I knocked the back of my head against the wall of the Lenton’s waiting room. “Sleeping, or something?”
Veronica shifted in her seat. “Calm down, Franki. I’m sure he’ll meet with us soon.”
“You said that thirty minutes ago.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Seriously, he had better hurry. Otherwise, I won’t have time to get ready for my date. And if that happens, you’ll have another murder to investigate.”
“You know,” she rummaged in her red Fendi bag, “I just can’t stop thinking about Domenica’s reaction to our visit.”
I crossed my arms. “I still say we should’ve questioned her.”
“No, we need to talk to her alone to avoid the mother-daughter dynamic.” She opened a compact. “That way we can find out if she meant the things she said, or if she was just trying to get a rise out of her mother.”
“I’m not sure I want to be alone with The Dark One. There was something about the way the girl looked at me that made my skin crawl.”
“She is awfully angry.” Veronica powdered her nose. “I’m going to have David do a background check on all of them. If this business about Jessica hating the color yellow is relevant to the case, then every member of the Di Salvo family is a potential suspect.”
I looked at my phone. “It’s six o’damn clock.” I leapt from my seat and paced the room, and I ran right into a stick-thin fifty-something administrative assistant as she walked through the doorway. “I’m so sorry.”
She straightened and pushed up her glasses. “Mr. Orlansky will see you now.”
Veronica and I looked at one another before following the woman as she tottered on scuffed beige heels down a long hallway and stopped without a word beside an office doorway marked “Ed Orlansky.”
I followed Veronica into a small, windowless room decorated in varying shades of brown. The balding middle-aged man behind the desk was also wearing brown from head to toe, including the cigar in his mouth. I looked at the cigar to see whether it was lit.
His eyes met mine. “Don’t worry, I don’t smoke this thing.” His voice was gruff like his demeanor. “I just like to chew on it.”
My stomach lurched at the thought of swallowing tobacco cud. “Oh. Sure.”
He rose and pulled up his pants, which sagged below his protruding belly.
“Which one of you ladies is Veronica?”
“That’s me.” Veronica extended her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to see us about the Jessica Evans case.”
“Happy to be of service.” He shook her hand and stared into her eyes. “Did you say that you and Miss—”
“Amato,” I interjected. “But please call me Franki.”
He nodded. “Franki. Are you with the New Orleans PD?”
“Actually,” Veronica grasped a lock of her hair and gave it a twirl, “I own a private investigation firm called Private Chicks, Inc.” She batted her long eyelashes.
“We don’t normally give information to private investigators…” The cigar went limp between his lips.
Veronica’s bat-and-twirl offensive was taking effect.
He drew in his breath, as though shaking off a spell. “But, given the seriousness of this case, I suppose I could help you ladies out.”
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Orlansky.” Veronica clapped and leaned closer to his desk.
“Please, call me Ed.” He flashed a mouthful of yellow teeth. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
I sat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I had a date to get ready for, so it was time to get to it. “Were you able to look up the sales information for the Limoncello scarf?”
He started as though he’d forgotten the reason for our visit. “Oh, yes. Well, the scarf belongs to an exclusive Lenton’s line that’s only sold in this store. And based on our inventory records, we received five in yellow and five in mauve.”
Veronica batted and twirled. “Can you tell us who you sold the five yellow scarves to?”
He paused, mesmerized by her charms. “We have an electronic record of all purchases. But those would only tell you who bought the scarf if the customer used a credit card or check to pay.”
I glanced at the time on my phone. “Is there any way to find out the identity of a customer who paid with cash?” Ed hesitated, as though debating something, and licked his dry lips. “You could get an image of the customer from the computer.”
“Computer?” I met Veronica’s baby blues straight on.
“Yeah, we have a camera on every cash register in the store, and the video from the cameras is stored on a computer hard drive. So we can search the electronic receipt files for the ID number of the scarf, and then check the computer video file for the day and time the scarf was sold.”
I nodded to encourage him. “Would it be possible to check the video file for all the Limoncello scarves purchased with cash? We’d like to see those first.”
“It depends. If the scarf was sold more than thirty days ago, then the video would be backed up to DVD and stored at our headquarters in Baton Rouge.”
“You could get the DVD from Baton Rouge, though, right?”
“Well yes, my secretary could have them mail us a copy. But I’m not sure we have the resources to go through all that video right now. We’re understaffed at the moment, and that kind of thing could take hours.”
Veronica batted and twirled away. “I could help you go through it.”
“In that case,” he lit up like a cigar, “I’m sure we could work something out.”
“Oh, Ed, you’re the best.” Veronica gave a sensual hair flip.
He blushed. “Thank you, but it’s going to take time.” He paused to ogle Veronica. “We’ll probably be working late for quite a few nights.”
Veronica gave another sexy hair flip. “I’m available.”
“All righty then.” I shot to my feet. “We sure appreciate it, Ed. We’ll check in with you in a day or two to see how the research is coming, but right now we’re late for another appointment.” I headed for the door and gestured to Veronica to follow suit.
“Yes, thank you, Ed.” She sprung from her seat and gave a little wave. “I’ll call you.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He breathed the words as though exhaling smoke.
We rushed from his office, and I turned to Veronica. “You have mad skills.”
“Who, me?” She batted her eyelashes and twirled a lock.
“And while we’re on the subject of your skills,” I looked at the time, “I’m gonna need you to kick that racecar driver thing into high gear. My date with Bradley is in forty-five minutes.”
“Madonna santa,” I whispered as Veronica and I pulled up to the fourplex exactly forty-five minutes later thanks to the evening traffic.
She squeezed the steering wheel. “Holy mother of God, indeed.”
Not only was Bradley waiting in the driveway in his black BMW, but Glenda was leaning into his driver-side window in one of her lingerie loungewear ensembles—a black teddy and a fuchsia fur-lined robe with matching high-heeled slippers. She wasn’t holding her customary cigarette lighter. Instead, she had a bottle of champagne in one hand and two long-stemmed champagne flutes in the other. And she was clearly in the mood to entertain.
Veronica nudged me from my stone state. “You get into the house and get your LBD on ASAP. I’ll have Bradley help me walk Hercules and Napoleon around the neighborhood. That’ll give you some time to get ready and get Glenda out of the picture. She won’t be able to walk the dogs in those heels.”
I spun in the seat. “Are you kidding? That woman has been performing in six-inch platform stripper shoes since the age of sixteen. Not only could she walk the neighborhood in those heels, she could run a marathon and then compete in the freakin’ high jump.”
She chewed her lower lip. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
“You do that.” I threw open the car door and mad-dashed to my front door.
I wasted precious seconds fumbling with the lock, and then I pushed open the door and started to run toward my bedroom. Unfortunately, Napoleon was waiting to greet me on the other side of the door, so I took an impromptu leap to avoid stepping on him. My foot caught the tooth of the bear head on the bearskin rug, and I careened onto the floor, landing on both knees. I jumped up, limped to the bathroom, and threw off my clothes only to discover that both of my knees were bleeding.
“Mannaggia,” I cursed, rubbing an antibiotic on my wounds. I had about twenty minutes to get ready to avoid making us miss our dinner reservation at Le Bayou. There was no time to wash and dry my hair. Instead, I took a speed-of-light shower.
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br /> I started to apply my make-up and heard Veronica and Bradley returning with the dogs. To my dismay, I also heard Glenda’s unmistakable smoker’s-cough laugh. I willed Veronica to keep her in line, but I knew there was no use. Glenda was a force of nature, and she was more powerful and unpredictable than a hurricane.
My hands shook as I did my eyeliner. When I stood back from the mirror, I saw that my signature Sophia Loren-style cat eye looked more like that of Cleopatra. There was no time to fix it. “It’s okay, Franki,” I said to my horrified reflection, “Cleopatra was one of the greatest seductresses in history.”
I hurried to my closet, pulled my dress off the hanger, and stepped into it. I wrestled with the zipper and slipped on my black slingbacks. I didn’t stop to look in the mirror again for fear of what might look back at me.
When I entered the living room, I saw the second most horrifying spectacle of the day—Glenda had propped one of her skinny white spider-veined legs on the chaise lounge and was doing her best to look sexy while extracting a card from her fuchsia garter belt.
“Here you go, sugar,” she said to a grinning Bradley as Veronica looked on in a mix of astonishment and admiration. “My business card.”
“Thank you, Miss Glenda.” He took the business card and raised her hand to his lips.
“If you ever need anything, darlin’, and I do mean anything, you just call Miss Glenda.”
The only thing I could think of to do was clear my throat. But thanks to my mold allergy, I sounded like a cat hacking up a hefty fur ball. The noise startled the unlikely trio, who turned to look at me.
“Oh.” Veronica put her hand to her mouth and rushed to the kitchen.
Glenda raised an eyebrow and tossed back an entire glass of champagne.
I felt what must have been a trickle of blood run down my right knee. So much for my grand entrance.
Bradley had a gleam in his eyes. “Jaclyn Smith with an Italian twist.”
“What?” I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 15