I should've predicted that my nonna would be listening in to a conversation about a wedding. She'd been trying to get me married for the last thirteen years, since I was sixteen.
"She found a nice-a Sicilian boy," Nonna continued, "so they gonna get married in a church in-a Sicilia."
I couldn't help but feel a tinge of resentment toward Giovanna. By announcing her plans to get married in a Sicilian church, of all damned places, she'd opened up a world of grandma hurt for me. My nonna had already accepted the fact that Bradley wasn't Sicilian, reasoning that a twenty-nine-year-old zitella like me couldn't "have-a it all-a." But I wasn't sure how she was going to react to the news that a church wedding to Bradley—provided that he ever proposed to me, that is—was out of the question in light of his divorce. Of course, I avoided the issue and muttered a polite, "That's nice."
Nonna gave a bitter laugh. "'That's-a nice,' she says. Well, if-a you think it's-a so nice, then why you no wanna date those-a Sicilian boys I find-a for you?"
I thought of the string of Sicilian-American chauvinists and mammas' boys she'd given my phone number to a few months before. "Uh, they weren't exactly my type."
"No? And-a what's-a your type, Franki? This I want-a to hear."
I was treading on dangerous ground. If I wavered in my response, she would sick her army of Sicilian suitor-soldiers on me again. "My boyfriend, Bradley Hartmann," I replied in no uncertain terms.
"Okay, and-a when is-a this-a Bradley gonna come-a to meet-a your mamma?"
"Nonna, we've only been dating for a few months."
"That's-a plenty of time. I got-a engaged to your nonnu, God rest-a his soul, after two-a weeks.
"But that was in Sicily during Fascism. This is the United States, a democracy, sixty years later."
"And-a you see where all-a this-a freedom has-a gotten you, eh? Twenty-nine years old without-a no husband. Una tragedia."
These calls from home were always so uplifting. "Nonna, I've really got to go. I have a list of things to do before I go to work this morning."
"Well, you add-a this to your list. Tell-a Bradley to meet-a your mamma. Because I'm-a hearing the tick-a tock-a tick-a tock-a of-a your clock all-a the way here in-a Houston."
If I stayed on this call a minute longer, my brain—and my biological clock—were going to explode. "I'll do that," I gushed. "Ciao Ciao!"
Happy Monday, I thought as I threw the phone onto the nightstand. I kicked off my hot pink velvet duvet and climbed out of the French bordello-style bed. Thanks to my family, I was now painfully aware that I was old, husbandless, and quickly closing in on barren. So I figured that there was no time like the present to drop by Pontchartrain Bank to find out whether I was boyfriendless too.
An hour and a half later, I was strolling down Canal Street toward Pontchartrain Bank, taking in the sights and smells of the busy thoroughfare. Unlike the narrow, shop-and-bar-lined streets of the adjacent French Quarter, Canal was one of the main arteries of the city. In the colonial era, it was the dividing line between the French and Spanish portion of the city and the newer American Sector, which is now the Central Business District. Four lanes across with a two-way trolley line in the center, Canal looked more like something you would see in an urban metropolis such as Los Angeles than in a small Southern city like New Orleans. And the same could be said about its hordes of tourists and bums.
As I approached the foreboding black slate walls of the bank, I felt a growing sense of anxiety. I wondered whether Bradley was still mad about the alligator-accident-gun thing. But then I reasoned that the fact that he hadn't called me didn't necessarily mean anything. After all, it was entirely possible that he hadn't been able to call because his meeting ran late. And, looking back on the whole swamp incident now, the only real harm done was a little muddy water on his suit and possibly a lost business deal. But life was about so much more than work. Surely he could see that.
Feeling a surge of newfound confidence, I pushed open the heavy glass door and glanced toward the teller area on the right. Despite her petite 4' 10" frame, I immediately spotted Corinne Mercier, a teller who had helped Veronica and me solve a homicide case at the nearby LaMarca luxury goods store a few months before. She was just finishing up with a client, so I started in her direction to say hello.
"Why, Franki," Pauline's pompous voice boomed from behind me as I was enveloped by a cloud of her perfume. "I'm surprised to see you here."
I turned around and saw Pauline sitting at her desk in front of the row of offices on the left side of the room. "I hardly think it's surprising that I would drop by my bank," I said. Then I added, with emphasis, "And my boyfriend's place of work."
She blinked. "I couldn't agree more. It's just that I thought you'd be hard at work wrestling alligators or gunning down innocent people."
I sighed and slung my hobo bag over my left shoulder to free up my right arm. You know, for gesturing. "Listen, Pauline. I don't have time for this."
She rested her chin on her folded hands and looked me straight in the eye. "Neither do I."
I shifted in my slingbacks. This woman had a lot of nerve. "Could you buzz Bradley and let him know I'm here?"
"He's in a meeting," she replied. And, as though dismissing me, she picked up a jar of opaque white glitter and began sprinkling it into a stuffed envelope.
I gave an impatient toss of my hair. "Okay, what time will it end?"
"No clue." She picked up another envelope and added the white flakes.
"Can you at least tell me how the meeting went with Mr. Stafford last night?" I asked through quasi-clenched teeth.
She ceased sprinkling and glared up at me. "I'm not at liberty to discuss confidential bank business."
I'd set myself up for that one. "All right, then. Just tell Bradley I stopped by."
"That'll be number one on my to-do list." She flashed a false smile.
Somehow, I doubted that. I started to walk away, but my curiosity got the better of me. "What are you doing, anyway?"
Pauline turned up her nose with a self-important air. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm putting together the invitations for the 'Shoot for the Moon' charity event I'm organizing for the bank. It's to raise scholarship funds for kids who were victims of Hurricane Katrina."
"So, what's the white stuff?"
"It's supposed to be moon dust," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"You sure it's not anthrax?"
She smirked and shook her head in disgust. "Everything's a crime to you, isn't it? And we saw where that got you last night."
I felt a wave of anger rise in my chest, but I fought to maintain my composure. I couldn't cause a scene at Bradley's bank, especially not after the events of last night. "Think what you want, but a lot of people are going to open those envelopes and panic when they see white powder."
"Oh, and I see you're also a cynic," she said, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "How charming."
I narrowed my eyes. "Coming from someone like you, I'll take that as a compliment."
She fluttered her eyelashes and faked a mournful frown.
My hands balled into fists. I needed to leave before my free right arm did something I would regret. I spun on my heels and stomped toward the teller area.
"See ya later, alligator," Pauline intoned.
I froze in my tracks but didn't turn around. I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction. Instead, I headed straight for Corinne's friendly face.
"Bonjour, Franki," Corinne said in her thick French accent. "I see you meet Pauline."
I took a deep, calming breath. "Yeah," I said, casting a hostile glance in her direction, "I had the great pleasure of meeting her a few weeks ago when you were on vacation."
"Ah." Corinne looked down. With her pixie haircut and big blue eyes, she looked like a sad Tinker Bell.
I rested my arms on the counter. "What's the matter?"
She looked up. "I sink she does not like me very much."
Even thou
gh I was convinced that Pauline was evil incarnate, I was surprised that she'd take issue with a sweet person like Corinne. "Honestly, I don't think she likes anyone very much, so I wouldn't take it too hard if I were you."
"Peut-être," she said, her chin quivering.
"Did something happen between the two of you?"
She wiped away a tear. "I suppose I can tell you. But please, do not tell Bradley."
"Of course not," I said, leaning forward.
She took a deep breath. "On Friday, zere was money missing from my teller drawer. Pauline say I took ze money. But I did not."
Now I was shocked. I didn't know Corinne very well, but I knew she wasn't the type to steal money from her place of work. "How much was missing?"
"Five hundred dollars."
I gasped. "What happened? Do you think you made some kind of mistake?"
"I don't know, but I repay ze money."
"Out of your own pocket?" That was a sizeable chunk of change on a bank teller's salary. And on mine, for that matter.
She nodded. "But now Mr. Hartmann sinks I steal."
"I doubt very seriously he sinks—I mean, thinks—that. He knows what an honest, loyal employee you are."
She shook her head. "No, he does not. Pauline say she saw me take ze money."
"Oh, Corinne. I'm so sorry." I couldn't imagine why Pauline would go so far as to accuse Corinne of theft. I didn't think it likely that she was after Corinne's job since she struck me as the type who would set her career sights much higher. But what other reason would she have had for saying Corinne took the money? And what had happened to that five hundred dollars, anyway?
"Franki," Corinne said, shaking me from my thoughts.
"Yes?"
"Be careful. Zis Pauline, she is not a nice person."
I thought of her potential influence on Bradley, and my jaw tightened. "I will. And you do the same. Keep your eyes on your teller drawer at all times, and let me know if anything else happens."
As I headed down Canal Street toward the Mississippi River, I couldn't stop thinking about that missing money. I really hoped that Bradley was looking into the situation. Because even though I had no idea what was going on at Pontchartrain Bank, my gut was telling me that something wasn't right.
My gut was also telling me, loud and clear, that it was time for breakfast. And for me, breakfast in the French Quarter, and often lunch and dinner, meant only one thing, beignets. But it was already nine, so the world-famous Café du Monde was out of the question. By this time, the line to get in usually stretched all the way down to the Civil War era, model cannon in neighboring Washington Artillery Park. I took a left on Decatur Street and stopped instead at the less renowned but optimistically named New Orleans Famous Beignets and Coffee Café and ordered a dozen of the powdered-sugar pastries. To share with everyone at the office, naturally.
Ten minutes later, I exited the restaurant cradling a bag of piping hot beignets. When I looked down to grab my sunglasses from my purse, I ran straight into a little woman with the body type of the Pillsbury Doughboy and a Chanel handbag the size of a sixth grader. The impact was so strong that we bounced off one another.
"Oooh!" the woman exclaimed. She straightened her purple knit poncho and then smoothed her platinum-highlighted, bouffant brown bob. Her stubby fingers were tipped with white, paddle-shaped acrylic fingernails decorated with tiny replicas of the same silver and gold moons and stars that adorned her charm bracelet, necklace, and earrings.
"I'm so sorry," I gushed. "Are you okay?"
She stared at me with green eyes as big as saucers and raised her pudgy hand to her small mouth. "I'm fine," she said in a honeyed voice. "But you're obviously not."
I felt my face and did a quick check of my limbs. Everything seemed in order, that is, except for that twenty extra pounds in my mid-section and backside. "Um, I'm not sure I understand."
Her round face grew serious. "I wasn't referring to your earthly body. I meant your aura. It's black."
That explains the moons and stars, I thought. "Yeah, I've had kind of a rough morning."
She shook her head, causing her jewelry to jingle like Santa's sleigh bells. "It's not about your morning. And I know, because I talk to spirits."
My first inclination was to tell her that the only spirits I wanted to know about were those of the alcohol variety. But in the short time I'd been in New Orleans, I'd learned to treat the drunks and the crazies in the Quarter courteously—and then flee. "How interesting," I said with a polite nod. "But, I'm late for work, so I'd better be on my way."
"Wait!" she shouted. "This could be a matter of life and death."
At that precise moment thunder rumbled overhead.
I glanced up and saw that dark clouds were quickly obscuring the sunny sky of moments before. I looked back at the woman, and an uneasy feeling came over me. I didn't like the turn the weather was taking, not to mention the turn of this conversation.
"Stay still." She grabbed my left arm, and then her eyes rolled back into her head.
My jaw dropped. I couldn't tell whether she was about to commune with spirits or have a seizure.
As I was pondering what to do, the woman's left arm shot into the air, and her charm bracelet began to vibrate.
Definitely a seizure. I pulled out my phone to call 9-1-1.
"It's worse than I thought," the woman wailed. "Much worse."
"What is?" I asked, alarmed. "Are you going to faint?"
She opened her eyes and dropped my arm. "No," she said in a surprisingly wail-less tone. "I told you, I'm fine. But the spirit I'm talking to isn't. She's in complete hysterics."
The spirit's not the only one, I thought as I slipped my phone back into my purse.
The woman began wringing her hands and pacing back and forth in her denim mini miniskirt and four-inch-heeled, leopard-print boots. "The spirit wants you to know that she did something bad for a family member, and it got her killed." She stopped and grabbed hold of my arms. "She was murdered."
"O-kaaay." I contemplated shaking free of her grip and making a break for it, but then I opted for a more rational approach. "Well, tell her that I just happen to investigate murders for a living, but only for clients who are alive."
She let go of me. "The spirit knows thaaat. Why do you think she's trying to warn you?"
"Warn me? Why on earth—I mean, why in heaven—would she need to do that?"
"What she did has put you and possibly even your friend Valerie or Vicki—no, Veronica—in grave danger."
Veronica? I got goose bumps on my arms. This wasn't crazy anymore; it was downright creepy.
"And the worst part of it is," she continued, "that there's nothing she can do to help you now. You're on your own."
I stared at the ground, trying to process what I'd just heard. I didn't believe in psychics, but where the supernatural was concerned, I made it my policy to be safe rather than sorry. And since I didn't know how this woman knew about Veronica, I decided to err on the side of caution and consider her warning. Now, even though the "you're on your own" part of her message was troubling, it hardly came as a surprise. My solitary state had been the theme of the day, starting with the reminder of my zitella-hood from my nonna and ending with Pauline's refusal to let me anywhere near Bradley. But was I really in some kind of danger?
As though in reply from the spirit herself, a bolt of lightening flashed as thunder cracked in the blackened sky. Then a hard rain began to fall.
3
Seizing upon the downpour as my opportunity to escape the whole psycho situation with the psychic, I shrugged and said, "Gotta run!"
As I dashed beneath the green-and-white striped awning of the café's covered patio, the strap of my hobo bag caught on the back of a wrought iron chair. I lurched forward, narrowly missing a table of Japanese tourists who started screaming as though they were witnessing a real-life version of The Return of Godzilla. When I regained my balance, I turned to free my purse strap. And then I let ou
t a scream. The odd little woman was standing right in front of me, rooting around in her colossal Chanel bag.
"I wish I would have known it was going to rain," she whined, pulling out an entire box of tissues.
"Yeah," I muttered. Apparently, her metaphysical abilities didn't extend to meteorological phenomena.
"I just had my hair done this morning," she added as she began dabbing at her Texas-sized tease.
"That's a bummer," I said, staring fascinated at her huge hairstyle. It had a peculiar sheen to it, like it was gleaming. Not in a rain-spattered or even an otherworldly way, but in a freshly applied varnish one.
She sighed and reached into her bra. "Anyway, take this," she said, pulling out a business card. "You're going to need it."
I took the moon-embossed card—using only my fingernails—and read aloud, "Chandra Toccato, Crescent City Medium."
"'Chandra' is Hindi for 'shining moon.'"
And your last name is Italian for "touched," I thought.
"Well," she prodded. "Do you get it?"
I glanced up at her. "What?"
"Chandra? Crescent City Medium? They both refer to the moon!" she said, beaming. "So, becoming a psychic was literally in the stars for me. Or in the cards—as in, tarot cards?" She put her chubby fingers to her lips and giggled, exactly like the Pillsbury Doughboy does. "And you're not going to believe this, but I'm also a Cancer. You know, a moon child?"
I nodded and then scrutinized her moon-pie face, yet another aspect of her lunar life theme, looking for signs of insanity.
"I need to be honest with you, though," she continued, touching my arm. "I'm originally from Boston. But after Katrina, I felt called to the Crescent City, which is only natural given my celestial essence and all. So I convinced my husband Lou—we were high school sweethearts—that we had to move to New Orleans because the people here were in desperate need of our services."
"He's a psychic too?" I wasn't really interested—just coerced into conversational compliance by her incessant chatter.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 30