Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  I opened the door expecting to find Napoleon waiting for me to take him on a walk, but he was nowhere to be seen. Dogs were supposed to greet their masters when they came home, but Napoleon occasionally opted to continue napping because his life was so exhausting and all. No matter—it meant that I could get right to the important business of the morning—eating and shopping online. In between calls to Stewart Preston, of course.

  After grabbing a plate from the kitchen, I headed to the living room and sat cross-legged on the chaise lounge. I opened my laptop, placed it in front of me, and laid out my pastry picnic. I picked up a slice of the pound cake and was preparing to take my first delicious bite when I heard a whimper coming from the floor below. Napoleon was staring at me, begging.

  “You know sugar isn’t good for you. Go lie down.”

  Napoleon knew the phrase “go lie down” as well as he knew the words “bath” and “treat,” but he chose to ignore me and whimpered again.

  I looked him in the eyes. “Trust me, boy. I’m doing you a favor.”

  He stared at me with the intensity of a hypnotist, willing me to give him the pound cake.

  I sighed and put down the pastry. “Come on.” I went into the kitchen to get him a dog treat. I took a biscuit from a box in the pantry and held it to his mouth. “Here you go. Now scram.”

  He took the treat with his teeth and ran to the living room to eat it, presumably so that he could punish me by leaving crumbs on the bearskin rug.

  I flopped onto the chaise lounge and picked up the pound cake.

  Someone knocked on my front door.

  I bowed my head. “Who is it?”

  “Veronica. Open up.”

  I rose and opened the door to find Veronica dressed in a faux shearling coat, jeans, and boots. “Howdy, partner,” I drawled in Texan. “Are you on your way to the cowboy convention?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She blew past me into the room. “The whole cowboy incident reminded that I hadn’t worn this outfit in a while.”

  I closed the door and returned yet again to the chaise lounge, doing an eye roll on the way.

  “Anyway, I got your message about Concetta.” She spotted my mini banquet and squealed. “Yummy. Thanks for getting me some too.”

  My heart was as heavy as the pastry bag. I wasn’t going to admit that all six of those lemony treats were for me. “No problem.”

  Veronica bit into the slice of pound cake that I’d been trying to eat for the past ten minutes. “So, you don’t think Concetta was following you, do you? I mean, from what you told me, it sounds like she just happened to see you as you were going into CC’s.”

  “That’s what I think too.” I snatched a piece of the cake for myself. “I guess I was just taken aback by how angry she was.”

  “Well, I can see how she’d think we were targeting Domenica, so it’s really not surprising that she would get upset. Nuns are people too, you know.”

  “I suppose so.” Although, based on my Sunday school experiences, I was half convinced that nuns were actually a special race of super humans who had x-ray vision that they used exclusively for the purpose of seeing right through those with guilty consciences.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Veronica waved what was left of her pound cake. “She’s such a nice person. She’ll probably call you to apologize.”

  “Maybe.” But I wasn’t so sure about that. Concetta had seemed pretty darned mad.

  She finished the last of her pound cake. “So, are you ready for round two of the Harry Upton stakeout tonight?”

  I watched with a growing sense of panic as she moved on to a lemon square, and I seized one for myself. “As long as we don’t have to go back to the rodeo restaurant.”

  “Definitely wear a dress again in case we have to follow him into someplace nice.”

  “Ugh, I don’t want to be in a dress while we’re looking at video at Lenton’s. I’d rather be in my comfy jeans.”

  “We’re not going to Lenton’s.”

  “Why not? Is Ed still in the grip of the devil?”

  She shrugged and took a bite of lemon square. “I don’t know, but his assistant called me this morning and said that the DVD of the other two purchases hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “Don’t worry. It should be here in a day or so. She said it was sent via FedEx.” Veronica looked at her phone. “Oh, crap. I have a mani-pedi in thirty minutes. I’ve got to go.”

  I looked at the plate and was relieved to see that I still had one of each of the pastries left.

  Veronica grabbed the last piece of pound cake to go.

  “Well, I’ll see you later.” I rushed her from the apartment before she could do any more damage to my dessert, er, breakfast. Then I locked the door behind her.

  Alone with one lousy lemon square, I picked up my laptop and clicked my Internet browser. On a whim, I pulled up The Times-Picayune picture of Stewart Preston waving on the courthouse steps. There was something about the photograph that wasn’t right, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  I studied the image for a few more minutes. As my eyes roved the picture, it hit me—There was no clasp on Stewart’s watchband. I stared at the watch trying to determine whether it was the slip-on kind, and then I decided that it wasn’t a watch at all. But to be sure, I needed a high-resolution version of the photo. I scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked “Times-Picayune Store.” After a quick search, I discovered that the picture wasn’t readily available, so I filled out a web-form request for a copy.

  If the watch was actually a bracelet, it could blow the Evans case wide open.

  Bradley licked my face, and I turned over on my left side with a giggle.

  Wait. That doesn’t sound right.

  I sat up with a start. Napoleon stood on his hind legs with his front paws perched on the chaise lounge, his tongue lolling from his mouth. I put my hand on my right cheek and touched something wet and sticky. Dog saliva mixed with lemon square.

  Nice.

  I looked at my phone to check the time. Three o’clock? I must’ve crashed and burned from my caffeine-sugar high, which meant that it had been a successful lazy Saturday, after all.

  There was also a voice mail from my parents’ number. It had to be my nonna wanting to find out the results of her serenade scheme. I gave silent thanks to the universe for allowing me to miss that call. I tapped the message and steeled myself for what was to come.

  “Franki, I talk-a to Guido, and a wow-a.” My nonna had never sounded so happy. “He tell-a me that-a you two had a date last-a night. And he say that-a you’re gonna have another one again-a tonight. I told-a him that-a song would do the trick-a. Now, he did-a say that you were a lot older than-a he thought-a you was gonna be, but that-a was because-a I tell-a him that-a you were twenty-one and not-a twenty-nine.” A smack ensued. “Ha!”

  I imagined her slapping the kitchen table in a fit of self-induced hilarity and paused the message.

  What is she talking about? Guido and I did not have a date last night. And just where did he get off saying that I looked “a lot older” than he’d anticipated? I could pass for twenty-one or so.

  A disturbing realization dawned on me—He was talking about Glenda. Guido thought I was Glenda.

  I lay back on the chaise lounge slightly nauseated, and it wasn’t because of the pastries and coffee. I toyed with notion of deleting the rest of the message—I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anymore. Who knows what Guido had told my nonna about what he and Glenda did on their date?

  Then I remembered something I was always hearing on TV or wherever—Knowledge is power. And power was something I needed to take on my nonna.

  I tapped the play arrow.

  “So make-a sure you don’t-a tell-a him your real age. Remember, a zitella like-a you—”

  I tapped the trash can.

  For a moment, I wondered whether I should tell my nonna the truth about what had happened. But
I realized that I must’ve been delusional from low blood sugar. Because if Guido was dating Glenda and thought she was me, then I was finally off the hook. No more nonna in my love life. I just had to hope—or, rather, pray—that Guido wasn’t the type to kiss and tell. The mere thought of the stories he could divulge made me cringe.

  My phone vibrated.

  I looked at the display and sat up with a jolt.

  Stewart Preston.

  My hand shook as I tapped Answer. “Hello?”

  “Who the hell are you,” he practically growled, “and why have you been calling me and my family?”

  Stewart was ready to play hardball, so I needed to stay cool. “Like I said in my messages, I’m an old high school friend of Angelica Evangelista.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” His voice was thick with suspicion.

  “I need to talk to you about her murder.”

  “You must not have heard my last question,” he said in a slow, threatening tone. “I repeat, what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, I know you and Angelica go way back—”

  Stewart cut me off with a loud, raucous laugh. “Darlin’, Angelica goes way back with a lot of men.”

  The conversation was harder than I’d expected, so I spoke to him in the only language he seemed to know. “First of all, don’t call me ‘darling.’ And second, I know your father’s company was bribing Angelica to keep her quiet, and I can prove it.”

  A stony silence followed on the other end of the line.

  Fueled by a surge of confidence, I summoned my inner TV detective. “So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll meet me tomorrow night.”

  “Where?”

  I gulped down my surprise at his blasé reaction. “The Carousel Bar and Lounge at five o’clock. Don’t be late.” I ended the call.

  My palms were sweating, and I was breathing hard. I’d tracked down the elusive Stewart Preston, but there was a voice inside my head reminding me of the obvious. All indications were that he was a cruel, callous killer—and I’d just put myself squarely into his murderous hands.

  21

  “You’re bringing a gun to the Carousel Bar when I meet Stewart Preston?” I turned in the driver seat of my Mustang.

  “Just as a security measure.” Veronica kept her binoculars trained on Harry Upton’s office building on the Garden District’s swanky St. Charles Avenue.

  I didn’t even know she had a gun. And while I was confident in my own ability to handle a firearm, thanks to my police training, I had less faith in Veronica. “But I’m meeting him in a public place in broad daylight.”

  “Franki, you and I both know that Stewart Preston could be dangerous.”

  I swallowed hard and glanced across the street as Harry emerged, pants drooping well below his massive belly, from the rotating glass doors of his office building.

  “Heeere’s Harry!” Veronica sounded like Jack Nicholson’s character in The Shining. “Precisely at six, just like last night.”

  “He’s nothing if not punctual.”

  Harry stopped and pulled up his pants, and a gust of wind blew his toupee into an upright position on his head. Seemingly unfazed, he tamped down the unruly rug and climbed into his Mercedes.

  “Jeez.” I started the engine. “You’d think a guy with all that dough would have a better hair piece.”

  “I know. It’s amazing what men are able to get away with in terms of their appearance.”

  I pulled onto southbound St. Charles, staying a few cars back from Harry’s Mercedes. I followed him for about a mile and a half, trying to focus on his car and not on the spectacular multi-million-dollar mansions that lined the avenue.

  “So, what kind of gun do you have?” I asked, more out of concern than curiosity. Guns weren’t one size fits all, particularly when you had tiny hands like Veronica.

  “A Smith & Wesson.”

  “A LadySmith?”

  “No, it’s the nine-millimeter Pink Breast Cancer Awareness model.”

  “Interesting marketing choice.”

  Veronica leaned forward. “His turn signal is on. It looks like he’s turning onto Seventh Street.”

  “On it.” I slowed down and turned onto Seventh just in time to see Harry turning onto Prytania Street. I followed suit, careful to hang back.

  He drove a few hundred yards and pulled to a stop in front of a stunning pink two-story Greek Revival mansion with a columned porch and wrought iron balcony. The house was shrouded in privacy hedges and majestic oaks and magnolias. I pulled to the curb, and Veronica and I slouched in our seats.

  Harry carried out his now familiar car-exiting routine—battling his belly to get out of his seat, tamping down his toupee, buttoning his sport coat, and smoothing his Hitleresque mustache.

  Veronica pulled her camera from its bag. “Okay, now drive slowly by the house. I’ll get shots of him with whoever comes to the door.”

  I straightened in my seat, pulled away from the curb, and drove at a crawl. When I reached the mansion, an elegant brunette opened the front door. It only took me a second to recognize her. “That’s the woman from last night.”

  “It sure is.” Veronica was slouched in her seat, snapping pictures.

  As we drove past, the brunette glanced at my car. She ushered Harry into the house and closed the door.

  I hit the gas. “I think she saw us, but I’m not sure.”

  “Let’s hope she didn’t.” Veronica straightened in her seat.

  “It doesn’t matter because we’ve got what we need. Let’s go back to the office so we can download the pictures and send them to Twyla.”

  “What?” Veronica looked at me. “We can’t leave now. We still need more pictures.”

  “Why?” I braked at a stop sign. “Twyla hired us to take pictures of Harry with Patsy so that she could use them to confront him. Now we just need to show her proof that he’s spent the last two evenings with another woman. It’s up to her to decide whether she still wants to confront him or have us find out the brunette’s identity first.”

  “But the pictures we have don’t prove that Harry is actually cheating on Twyla.” We need to try to get some photos of Harry and the brunette in a compromising position.”

  I turned to look at her. “How do you propose we do that?”

  “Easy. We could snap some photos through one of the windows.”

  “But what if they’re on the second floor?”

  “Well, in that case, we might be out of luck.”

  I tapped her arm. “I know. We could climb ones of those trees.”

  Veronica crossed her arms. “I don’t know, Franki. We’re in dresses and high heels.”

  “So? Charlie’s Angels wore dresses and heels all the time.” The reference reminded me of Bradley, and my gut gave a pang.

  “No. One of us could fall out of a tree and get hurt.”

  “C’mon, Veronica. Where’s your sense of investigative duty?” I appealed to her scrupulous, workaholic side. “This guy is cheating on his wife of forty-eight years. We’ve got to prove it and nail him.”

  She scrutinized my face. “Do you think you might be taking this case a little personally, Franki?”

  I feigned a look of disbelief, both for her benefit and my own. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t help but think that your zeal to nail Harry, as you put it, might have something to do with Bradley.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My voice was a telltale octave too high. “This case is purely business.”

  She shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, for now let’s just plan on doing a quick round of the house to see if they’re in one of the rooms on the main floor.”

  “Sure.” I turned onto Sixth Street and shivered. It bordered Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, the oldest and creepiest city-owned cemetery in New Orleans. I parked the car in front of the cemetery and stuffed the car keys into my bra for safekeeping.

  Veronica grabbed her camera from the floor. “So, h
ow do you suggest we do this?”

  “Because the backyard is fenced, we’re going to have to approach the house from the side. And we need to do this fast in case the brunette did see us. If she called the police, we could get arrested for trespassing.”

  She nodded.

  We exited the car and set off down the street. When we reached the house, we dashed into the yard and peeped in the windows—the living room, family room, den, parlor, and study.

  I couldn’t believe the luxury. “What does a single family do with all these living spaces?”

  “Shh!” Veronica looked into the kitchen and adjoining dining room. “Empty,” she whispered. “They must be upstairs. Let’s get going.”

  “No,” I whisper-shouted. “We’ve come this far. We’ve got to get some pictures.”

  “Franki, we can’t climb these trees. I can’t take the chance of one of us getting injured.”

  Unwilling to accept defeat, I scanned the side of the house and saw a metal trellis. “But I can.”

  I rushed to the ladder-like structure, kicked off my beige pumps, and climbed the twenty-or-so feet to the second floor.

  “Get down,” Veronica whisper-shouted. “That thing can’t possibly hold your weight.”

  “Just what are you trying to say, Veronica?” I scowled down at her.

  She scowled back. “It’s made of flimsy pressboard.”

  Ignoring her warning, I climbed until I reached a window. I peered over the windowsill into a spacious office and spotted Harry and the brunette sitting close on a sofa. She was curled up with her arm stretched out behind him on the back of the couch, and they were looking at what appeared to be a photo album.

  “I see them.” I realized that I had no way to photograph them. “I need the camera.”

  “I’m not climbing up that thing,” Veronica whisper-protested. “It’ll break.”

  “Fine,” I whisper-huffed. “I’ll come down.”

  I lowered myself slightly more than halfway. Gripping the trellis with one hand, I leaned and extended my arm.

  Veronica rose on her tiptoes. “I can’t reach you.”