I dropped Veronica off in front of our office at five after twelve. I briefly considered following her to the alleged client meeting to see what I would find out. But then I decided to go straight to Oleander Place. I didn't need a repeat of what happened the last time I fancied myself a spy.
The subject of spying reminded me that I hadn't seen Bradley since he'd returned from his trip. I thought about stopping by the bank to see if he was free for a quick bite, and then I got an idea. If he'd already gone to lunch, that meant I had a forty-five-minute window of opportunity to do some investigating at the bank. I took a left turn and headed toward Canal Street. The plantation could wait another hour.
As I drove, I ran through my plan of attack. I needed to find out two things—Pauline's employment history, so I could do a little digging into her past, and the location of the security room. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I had to get my hands on a copy of the video files for the days the money went missing from Corinne's drawer.
When I pulled up in front of the bank, I backed into a thirty-minute customer service zone and turned on my hazard lights. I rationalized that I was a) a bank customer in need of service, and b) in an extremely hazardous situation—especially if Bradley or Pauline learned what I was up to.
I exited the car and strolled casually into the lobby, where I saw Pauline hard at work on one of her essential bank tasks—writing on a poster board with a glitter pen. I took a deep breath and approached her desk.
"He's at lunch," she proclaimed without even looking up at me.
"Thanks." I needed to get her talking, so I asked, "What are you making?"
Pauline looked up at me, her gold earrings swaying. "A poster for the children's fundraiser. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."
My eyes zeroed in on her earlobes. Those dangles were triangles! Damn you and that Three of Cups card, I fumed. But I kept it together and said, "I've been meaning to ask you about the perfume you're always wearing. What kind is it?"
"Pure Poison by Dior," she replied, resuming her drawing.
If ever there was a scent that captured Pauline's essence that was the one, I thought. "Well, I just love it."
She put her glitter pen down and leaned back in her chair. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just trying to be nice." I had to bite the tip of my tongue to stop myself from adding, You should try it sometime.
"Uh-huh. Well, I'm busy right now, okay?"
I noticed that she had several rows of pictures of herself on her desk (not that she was self-absorbed or anything). This was my chance to bring up her work. "Wow! Is that you?" I gushed, picking up a photo. "You look like a model."
She sighed. "That’s because I was a model. In New York."
"Oh, I thought Bradley said you worked at a bank there. What was it called?" I asked, trying to conjure up a fake bank name in hopes that she would correct me. All I could think of was the unfortunately named, "Brokeman Bank."
"Brehman," she grunted as she added more glitter to the poster.
I felt a little rush. It wasn't her complete job history, but it was a start.
Pauline stared up at me with a scowl. "Listen, I don't have time chit chat. I've got to finish this before lunch."
"Yeah, that's an important poster," I said, unable to resist one tiny jab. "I've got to go make a deposit, anyway."
She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for sharing."
I smiled as sweetly as my tense facial muscles would allow and then headed over to Corinne's teller window. As I waited in line behind a customer, I took a deposit slip and pen from a nearby table and wrote, Pretend like I'm making a deposit in case Pauline is watching.
"Next," Corinne called.
I walked up to the window and slid the deposit slip toward her to make it look legitimate.
Corinne read the slip and nodded.
Looking down at the counter, I asked in a low voice, "Are employee resumes kept on file here at the bank?"
She typed something on her keyboard. "If zey are, zey would be in ze employee files in ze left-hand drawer of Mr. Hartmann's desk."
"Last question, where is the computer with the security video files?"
Corinne tore off my copy of the deposit slip. As she handed it to me, she pointed over my shoulder.
I turned and followed her finger to an unmarked door next to Bradley's office—just in time to see Pauline pull her keys from her purse and head to the exit. "Thanks," I said brightly. "See you next time."
She flashed a nervous smile. "You're welcome. Have a nice day."
I put the deposit slip in my bag and glanced at a clock in the lobby. It was twelve thirty, which meant that I had at least twenty minutes before Bradley returned. With my heart in my throat, I walked to his office. When I reached the door, I entered as though I belonged there. I was his girlfriend, after all.
Once inside I hurried to his desk and pulled open the left-hand drawer. Sure enough, there were files with the names of employees on them. In the back of the drawer was a label that read "Pauline Violette." I pulled the papers from inside the file and began flipping through them. Insurance information, an annual review, confirmation of a raise (that I was sure she didn't deserve). Then I found it. Pauline's resume.
I shoved the other papers back into the file and sat in Bradley's chair. His desk pad calendar caught my eye. Out of curiosity, I checked to see whether he wrote down our dates. I saw red—both literally and figuratively—when I realized that "Date with Franki," which he'd penciled in for yesterday, had been scratched out with red ink and replaced with "Video Conference" in a decidedly feminine handwriting.
"One of these days I'll cross you out, Pauline," I muttered as I began scanning the list of her previous employers with renewed determination. If her résumé was accurate, which was questionable, she'd worked for two banks from 2010 to 2011 and then from 2011 to 2012. For 2013, she had listed her freelance modeling work. Because that's so pertinent to the world of banking, I thought.
"I'll be right with you, Rich," Bradley's voice boomed from outside the door.
I froze in my seat—correction, Bradley's seat—as sheer panic coursed through my body.
"I need to grab my laptop," he continued.
Luckily, adrenaline followed the panic. I leapt up from the chair, kicked the file drawer shut, and stuffed the résumé up my shirt. I had just enough time to tuck the bottom of the sheet into the waistband of my jeans and sit on the corner of his desk before the door opened.
Bradley saw me and started. "Franki! What are you doing here?"
"Uh," I began, pushing a lock of hair out of my eyes, "before Pauline went to lunch, she said I could wait in your office."
He cocked his head to the side for a fraction of a second before removing his suit coat and hanging it on a coat rack. It must have sounded strange even to him that Pauline would be so accommodating.
I fervently hoped that he didn't mention this to her. Otherwise, she'd make good on her threat to out me about the pranzo ufficiale.
"It's great to see you, babe," he said as he crossed the room. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me in for a kiss.
For a second, I was seduced into an oblivious state by his touch. Then, remembering the resume, I arched my back like a cat so that his stomach wouldn't press against mine. As a result, his lips landed squarely on my nose.
Bradley pulled away and looked into my eyes. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine, fine," I said, thinking how ironic it was that even Pauline's résumé managed to drive a wedge between us.
Before I realized what was happening, he pulled me toward him again. As his body pressed against mine, there was a loud paper-crumpling sound.
He took a step back, his right arm still encircling my waist. "What was that?"
"Um," I said, racking my brains to think of a paper product I would have a logical reason for wearing around my mid-section—besides Depends. "It's a…new…maxi-maxi pad."
He stared
at my stomach and blinked.
"It goes up to the abdomen," I explained, feeling my cheeks flush. "For when you need that extra super protection."
"Oh," he said, as embarrassed as I was.
I glanced at my wrist—where a watch would have been if I'd been wearing one—and said, "Gosh! I need to go." And then using Veronica's lie as I rushed to the door, I added, "I just remembered that I was supposed to meet a client near the office at twelve fifteen."
"Wait a minute, Franki," he said in a stern tone.
I felt my stomach sink. He knew I was up to something. I turned to face him—and the consequences.
"Have dinner with me tomorrow night," he said softly with that familiar gleam in his eyes.
My knees went weak. I wanted to throw myself into his arms, but instead I smiled and nodded. Then I ran from the room, crinkling all the way.
Three hours and a wasted trip to Oleander Place later, I stomped up the three flights of stairs to Private Chicks and pushed open the door.
"Hey Franki," David said. He was sitting at his desk in the corner. "That package on the coffee table is for you."
"Awesome." I flopped down on the couch and picked up the cardboard box. "Hopefully someone sent me a rope to hang Delta with."
Veronica walked into the lobby from her office. "Why? What happened?"
"I just went to Oleander Place to talk to Scarlett, but when I got there I found a note saying the plantation had closed early. So I just blew three hours of my afternoon for nothing, and now I have to go back out there again tomorrow."
"That's weird." Veronica put her hand on her hip. "Delta called a few minutes ago, but she didn't mention that."
I narrowed my eyes. "She wasn't at the plantation, was she?"
"She didn't say. She was calling to let us know that the medical examiner said Ivanna died from respiratory failure."
"Do we know the cause?" I asked.
"Well, here's where it gets interesting. Ivanna didn't have any health conditions or injuries, which means that we're looking at a possible drug overdose. Or poisoning."
"Wow." I shook my head. "Then there's a possibility that Ivanna was poisoned—like Evangeline."
David spun around in his chair to face me. "Dude, that would be insane."
"That's one way to describe it," I said, staring at the box in my lap. "I hope they're testing for oleander."
"I would imagine they are at this point," Veronica replied, handing me a letter opener from David's desk.
I started slicing through the tape on the box. "This is just a thought, but Adam would know how to extract the poison from oleander."
Veronica took a seat beside me. "Yeah, but you don't have to be a scientist to poison someone with oleander. Evangeline is a perfect example of that. Whoever poisoned her just boiled oleander leaves in her tea."
I opened the box and stared inside. Then I turned to Veronica, my eyes wide with disbelief.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A pineapple."
"What?"
"In the package. It's a whole pineapple."
Veronica leaned over and looked inside. "Who sent it?"
I pointed to the outside of the box. "There's no sender name or address."
"David, who delivered this?" Veronica asked, visibly upset.
He shrugged. "It was by the front door when I got here."
I removed the pineapple and saw a typed note at the bottom of the box. I picked it up and read aloud, You've worn out your welcome, Miss Franki.
"Huh?" David said. "I don't get it."
"Actually, it's pretty clear," I replied in a surprisingly calm tone considering that my heart was hammering my rib cage. "It's a Southern-style threat to stay away from the Ivanna Jones case."
10
I arrived at Private Chicks at ten the next morning, exhausted and on edge. Following the shock of the package, I barely slept a wink. It seemed like I'd had the same nightmare all night long. I'd been pushed into a vat of fruit cocktail at the Dole pineapple plantation and was about to be canned alive.
Given the uncertainty of the situation, I kept an eye out for suspicious items as I climbed the stairs. Then I scoured every inch of the office. I felt kind of silly about being wigged out over a pineapple, but after yesterday, I was never going to look at the spiny fruit the same way again.
I'd just pressed start on my laptop when, out of nowhere, Veronica popped her head around the doorjamb.
"You okay?" she asked.
After prying myself off the ceiling, I replied, "How would you feel if you'd received the Southern equivalent of a severed horse head in your bed?"
She pursed her lips and took a seat in front of my desk. "I know you're upset. Believe me, I am too. But a pineapple isn't exactly a Godfather-caliber threat."
"Then I should feel good about the fact that I was threatened by an old-school Southerner rather than a mobster?"
"I'm just saying that I think it was a scare tactic. You should definitely be careful, but I don't believe you're in any real danger."
I cast her a sideways look. "All I know is that the next time I get a pineapple, it had better be on top of a piña colada."
Veronica gave a half smile. "So, who do you think sent it?"
"Scarlett comes to mind." I hugged my knees to my chest. "She's the one who told me what the pineapple symbolized in the Old South."
"She wouldn't set herself up like that."
"I'm not so sure. She didn't strike me as the brightest bustle dress on the plantation. But I do think Miles is also a possible culprit."
Veronica examined a fingernail. "Have you considered Adam?"
"If it was Adam, then he's connected to someone at Oleander Place. Whoever sent it had to know about the incident between Delta and Scarlett."
"Not necessarily. Remember, I told him that Oleander Place is our client. And Louisiana is plantation country, so the pineapple custom is well known here. In fact, you can buy pineapple merchandise at kitchen and gift shops all over the state."
"I don't know." I rested my chin on my knee. "It would be quite a coincidence for Adam to send a pineapple without knowing what went down."
"Mornin', miladies!" David exclaimed in a British accent as he appeared in the doorway.
I jumped out of my seat and almost out of my skin.
His face wrinkled in confusion. "Did I scare you, Franki?"
"Nah," I scoffed, picking up my overturned chair.
"We didn't hear your signature door slam," Veronica said.
"Oh! I get it now." He laughed, his head bobbing with each "ha." "I didn't close the door. My vassal did."
Veronica smirked. "Whatever your vassal is, I like it."
"It's a he." David puffed out his chest. "He's, like, my servant."
A short young man with hair slicked to one side and round, coke-bottle glasses stepped from behind David's lanky frame. "'Vassal' is a medieval term for a type of servant."
"Silence, vassal!" David commanded. Then he turned to Veronica. "My fraternity gave him to me. He's a freshman pledge, so he has to do my bidding for the day."
"What kind of fraternity is this?" I asked. "A feudal one?"
"Uh, that would be fairly ridiculous," David replied. "It's, like, a comp sci frat."
The vassal leaned forward. "I wanted to major in Radio, Television, and Film, but my parents wouldn't let me."
David stared open-mouthed at the young man. "Vassal, must I flog thee?"
"David!" Veronica rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips. "There will be no flogging in this office, do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, mademoiselle." He bowed his head. "But I wasn't really going to flog him. Honest."
I held up my hand. "Okay, enough about fraternities, feudalism, and flogging. I need you to do a background check for me ASAP on a woman named Pauline Violette."
David's head shot up. "Yo, she sounds hot."
The vassal nodded vigorously, careful to keep his lips sealed.
"Right," David said, bowing his head again. "I'll get to work on that now."
"You do that," I said.
David scurried from the room, but the vassal stood there looking at me, slack-jawed.
I realized that he was probably waiting for his orders, so I used a language I knew he would understand, Shakespearean English. "Be off with thyself, vassal!"
He turned and fled.
Veronica stared after him, shaking her head. Then she turned to me. "I see you've stepped up your investigation of Pauline."
"I have, starting with the résumé I snagged from Bradley's desk yesterday."
"Nice work," she said with an appreciative nod. "What's the plan?"
"I'm going to contact her previous employers to see what I can find out."
"Most Human Resources offices won't tell you anything without a signed release from Pauline."
"I know, but I'm hoping I'll get lucky and talk to an unprofessional ex-boss. Most bosses are jerks, you know."
Veronica lowered her eyelids.
"Not you, of course," I hurried to add. "Anyway, there are a few things about her résumé that are interesting." I pulled the document from a file in my desk. "For example, she worked at two different banks in New York in a short period of time, and then she did some freelance modeling."
"So?"
"Well," I began, frustrated that she couldn't see the gaping issues, "why'd she leave the two banks so fast?"
"From the sound of it, because she wanted to be a model."
"Sure, but was that really lucrative enough for her to be able to live in New York for a year? Probably not, because she's not doing it anymore."
She shrugged. "Maybe her family helped support her."
"Okay, then why, after she quit modeling, would she take a bank job in New Orleans and not in New York? That's where all her contacts were."
"Because she wanted to get out of the city, more than likely. New York is famous for burning people out."
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 38