He smiled. "Plantation chic."
I blinked. "You mean, plantation fashion?"
"That's right. What we wear influences the way we perceive ourselves, so it says a lot about who we are and what we value. You know the old saying "Clothes make the man"? And Oleander Place is a veritable treasure trove of information. Or should I say 'treasure chest'?"
I smiled. "Definitely the latter."
Troy locked the trunk and dragged it to the back wall. Then he hoisted it onto another trunk.
That explains the thump and the dragging sounds, I thought.
"Shall we go downstairs?" he asked as he brushed off his shirt.
"Please," I replied. "It's creepy up here."
"This whole place is creepy," he began with an exaggerated shudder, "especially now that there's been a murder in the pink room."
I followed Troy downstairs to the first floor.
"Let's go into the dining room," he said, ushering me into an elegant, marble-floored space. "Would you like something to drink?"
What I wanted was a shot of Pepto-Bismol to counteract the effects of those po' boys. But instead I said, "A glass of water would be nice."
I took a seat at the mahogany table. While I waited, I counted fourteen place settings with polished silverware, cornflower blue and white china, and fluted crystal goblets. On one side of the table, a rope was hanging. I looked up and saw that it was connected to a contraption that was shaped like an upside down lyre and had a panel of rich red velvet trimmed in gold fringe attached.
"That's a fan," Troy said, handing me my water. "While the family and guests dined, a slave would pull the cord to make the fan sway back and forth for the duration of the dinner. Wretched life, eh?"
I nodded. "Speaking of wretched lives, what can you tell me about the murder victim, Ivanna Jones?"
"Not much," he replied, taking a seat beside me. "I was at a graduate student conference in Nashville that day."
I took a sip of water. "When did you get back?"
"I drove home on Saturday night, and I got in around ten thirty. So I missed all the drama. But Delta showed me her photos of the crime scene when I came to work on Monday."
"Had you ever seen Ivanna before?"
"Based on the photos, it's hard to say." He straightened the silverware at his place setting. "She might have taken one of my tours of the grounds, but I can't be sure. Up until the time of the murder, we had as many as three hundred visitors per day."
I thought about Troy's expertise as a historian and wondered whether he had any special insight about the crime scene. "Did anything about the pictures strike you?"
"There were so many similarities to the death of Evangeline Lacour, the room, the dress, the bed, the position of the body. Even Ivanna's hair was the arranged the same way. The only thing we don't know is whether she was poisoned by oleander."
I couldn't disclose the presence of the oleander in the lip gloss because the police hadn't released that information. But I needed to know whether the poison had come from the plantation. "During your ground tours, did you happen to notice whether any of the oleander bushes had been tampered with?"
He shook his head. "I only focus on the lives of the slaves, so I don't really pay attention to the plants. Our groundskeeper, Miles McCarthy, would be the one to ask about that, but he's already left for the day."
"That reminds me, do you know where Scarlett is? Delta said that her last tour would end at three o'clock."
Troy furrowed his brow. "That's weird. Scarlett told me her last tour ended at noon."
"Cavolo," I muttered.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, it means 'cabbage.'" I gave a wry smile. "Italians use it like we use 'crap' or 'dang.'"
"If it's any consolation," he began, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think you would have gotten much out of Scarlett today. She was really upset about something."
I leaned forward. "Do you know why?"
"I asked, but she wouldn't say." He shrugged. "She was on edge the whole morning, though. It was like she couldn't wait to get out of here. But who can blame her after everything that's happened?"
I nodded, but I wondered whether her behavior had anything to do with Miles or her warning to me.
Troy glanced at his watch. "Listen, if you don't have any other questions, I need to get back to my research." He sighed. "Unfortunately, that dissertation isn't going to write itself."
I smiled. "Thanks for your help. I'll let you know if I need anything else."
After Troy left, I debated whether to phone Scarlett. But I decided she would be more likely to cooperate if I respected her request not to call her. I would just have to try to talk to her the following morning when I returned with Chandra.
As I stood up to leave, I remembered the courter's candle. I went into the parlor and saw that it had been extinguished. I assumed that Troy had put it out moments before, but something prompted me to touch the wick. It was cold, as was the wax. Someone had put out the flame while we were upstairs. But who?
I reclined on the chaise lounge in my living room and counted the shiny gold fleurs-de-lis on my fuzzy, blood-red wallpaper while I waited for Adam to answer the phone. It was the second time I'd tried to call since leaving Oleander Place an hour and a half before, but not even his voice mail was responding. I pressed end and tossed my phone to my side, narrowly missing Napoleon.
He leapt to the floor as though I'd thrown it straight at him.
"Napoleon, I did not try to hit you with my phone," I chided. "I'm the one who just came home early to let you out, remember?"
He shot me a "whatever" look before settling on the bearskin rug and resting his chin on his front paws. That was his pensive pose.
"So that's the thanks I get? For the record, I should be on my way to Lickalicious Lips right now trying to locate a possible lip gloss poisoner."
Napoleon sighed through his nose.
"And you're not the only one who feels like they're under attack, you know. A psycho-killer sent me a death threat yesterday—okay, so they didn't threaten to kill me, but that's beside the point. Meanwhile, Nonna is threatening to send invitations to my non-engagement to Bradley, and Pauline is threatening to tell him about it so she can steal him from me."
Wait. Bradley! I bolted upright. Was tonight the night we were having dinner?
I sent a quick text to his cell and then stared at my jagged fingernails and hairy legs. With Pauline lurking in the periphery, I had to go big—not broken and bushy—or go home.
My text tone sounded. Late meeting. See you at Antoine's in the Quarter at 7? xoxo, B
I looked at the time—five o'clock. I fired off a confirmation reply and fled to my bathroom in a panic.
Two hours and a flurry of plucking, polishing, painting, preening, and perfuming later, I exited my apartment in a fitted (read unintentionally tight) red dress and turned to lock the front door.
"Va-va-voom!" Glenda shouted from behind me. "That's some get-up you've got on there, Miss Franki."
I turned and saw Glenda and Veronica walking up the sidewalk. "Speaking of get-ups," I began, noticing that they were both wearing yellow, "you two look like twins." Albeit in a Danny DeVito-Arnold Schwarzenegger way.
Veronica was beaming with a post-shopping-spree glow. "To celebrate spring, we bought matching sundresses."
"Um, yeah," I said as I tried but failed to see the similarities between the two dresses beyond their color. Veronica's was a sleeveless Diane von Fürstenberg, while Glenda's was more like a crotchless Dita Von Teese. And there was no way to compare the plunging neckline of Glenda's dress to Veronica's V-neck, unless the v stood for "vagina."
"How did it go today?" Veronica asked.
"Well, I'm pretty sure Scarlett and Adam are avoiding me, but I finally managed to question Troy, the historian tour guide."
Upon hearing the word historian, Glenda yawned in mock boredom and began admiring the live yellow roses inside the clear plastic soles of her str
ipper shoes.
"What was he like?" Veronica asked, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.
I raised my hands like a director framing a scene. "Think smart California surfer."
Veronica nodded, but Glenda's foot popped like Mia's did when she kissed Michael in The Princess Diaries. It was like a divining rod, only instead of water, it sensed men.
"If I'm right in thinking that this case involves Obsessive Love Disorder, then Troy might be able to help us understand Ivanna's appearance."
Veronica twisted her mouth to one side. "But he's a historian, not a psychologist."
"Yes, but he studies the social meaning of clothing from the plantation era. In fact, he was wearing a pirate outfit when I met him."
"There's a surfer pirate at that plantation?" Glenda whispered to no one in particular.
"Oh, wow," Veronica said. "So he might be able to shed some light on Evangeline's pink dress."
I gave a satisfied smile. "And why Ivanna was found wearing it."
Glenda took a drag from her yellow cigarette holder and exhaled slowly. "I just might have to take a tour of Oleander Place. I've got a yearning for some California-flavored pirate booty."
"Speaking of booty," I said with a wink, "I need to get going, or I'll be late for my date."
At six forty, I was driving down Canal Street on my way to the French Quarter when I noticed that the lights were on in Pontchartrain Bank. Because the bank closes at six, I assumed that Bradley was still inside. Thinking that we could go to the restaurant in one car, I pulled into a parking space and headed for the main door.
"Bradley?" I called as I entered the lobby.
There was no answer. I walked to his office to see whether he was still in his meeting. I was surprised to find that the lights were out and it was locked. Bewildered, I looked around at the other offices, but they were dark too. The only explanation I could think of was that the last employee to leave had forgotten to lock up.
I was about to call Bradley to inform him of the situation when an Italian expression popped into my head. Prima il dovere, poi il piacere, which means "Duty before pleasure." I needed to get my hands on the bank security tapes for Corinne's case, and what better opportunity than this?
I turned and looked at the unmarked metal door next to Bradley's office. As I debated what to do, the strains of Elvis Presley's "It's Now or Never" infiltrated my brain. It was as though the King was guiding me. With a trembling hand, I reached for the handle and turned. The door was unlocked.
I felt a rush of excitement as I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Not only was the computer screen lit up, but a folder with the video files for April was open. Someone had recently been working with the files.
With my heart in my throat, I quickly scanned the files for April 12th and 16th, the days that Corinne was missing money from her drawer. They were right where they should be, by order of date.
I rummaged around in a desk drawer and found a flash drive. I plugged it into the USB port and copied the two files. Then I glanced at the clock. It was ten to seven, which meant I had just enough time to get to Antoine's.
"It's like it was meant to be," I whispered as I ejected the flash drive and put it in my silver clutch.
I stood up to leave and heard a key being inserted into the lock. I froze as the realization of what had just occurred struck me like a club. Someone had locked me into the security room.
I tried the doorknob—it didn't budge. My first instinct was to beat on the door, but I held back. If Bradley had been the one to lock the door, I certainly didn't want him to unlock it and find me on the other side. But when I thought about missing our dinner and spending the night in the bank, I began pounding on the door. "Bradley! It's me, Franki! Let me out!"
He didn't come. Surely he heard me, I thought. Why isn't he letting me out? To teach me a lesson?
As I was contemplating my next move, the scent of Pure Poison wafted into the room—like a noxious gas. Pauline! She was in charge of the security room, and she'd probably been working with the files when I came into the bank. I smacked myself in the forehead with the butt of my hand. The Italian word scema, or fool, came to mind, and then I smacked myself again because Italian is what had gotten me into this mess in the first place. "Duty before pleasure!" I scoffed. "Why would anyone in their right mind live by that credo?"
I mentally ran through the techniques I'd learned at the police academy for escaping from a locked room, but none of them applied. I didn't have the strength to break down a metal security door, and I couldn't pick the lock thanks to the protection plate covering the latch. And there was no point in calling Veronica because I was convinced that Pauline had left and locked the main door good and tight behind her. "Oh, God," I whined. "What am I going to do?"
But deep down I knew there was only one thing I could do—call Bradley.
While I pondered what to tell him, I tried to calm my nerves with a breathing method I'd learned the time I took yoga. I inhaled for three counts and exhaled for six, but my heart was still racing like I'd just run a marathon. Okay, forget yoga breathing, I thought. This is going to take Lamaze.
I pulled my phone from my clutch. But before I could dial the number, I heard a sound I knew all too well, a police siren.
"Oh no, she didn't," I breathed.
The siren stopped in front of the bank.
"Oh yes she did." I started the Lamaze breathing.
Within a matter of seconds, there were excited voices in the lobby. They were coming toward the security room.
"New Orleans Police!" a gruff male voice cried.
Following police procedure, I shouted, "I'm unarmed, and I'm an ex-cop." Then I held my hands in the air.
"Franki?" Bradley asked in an incredulous tone.
I stopped breathing.
The door opened.
I gave a wan smile and a little wave—and tried to look incredibly hot in my red dress. "Yeah, it's me."
Bradley's jaw contracted as his mouth drew into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed into slits.
The ruddy-faced officer scrutinized me through gold, wire-rimmed glasses and then turned to Bradley. "Do you know this woman?"
"I'm afraid I do, John," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Can I talk to you in my office for a minute?"
"Sure," the officer replied.
Bradley turned to me. "Don't move a muscle," he said, pointing his finger at my chest. "Not even to blink. Do you understand?"
I nodded and watched as Bradley and the officer went into his office and shut the door.
I'd never seen Bradley this angry before, not even after I'd punched him in the face and kicked him in the coglioni (that's Italian for…well, you know), which I still say was perfectly justified given that he'd kissed me while he was married to his ex. I simply had to think of some way to justify my presence at the bank both to Bradley and the police without betraying Corinne's confidence.
Bradley marched out of his office and right up to my face. "As a personal favor to me," he said in a dangerously low tone, "Officer Quincy is going to forget he saw you here."
"Oh, thank God," I gushed. "Why don't we just go to Antoine's, and I'll explain…"
"We're not going to Antoine's, and you're not going to explain because I don't want to hear it. Now, I don't know where you're going when you leave here tonight, but I can tell you this—you'll stay far from this bank."
"But—"
"No buts," he said, raising his hand.
I took a step backward, just in case.
"Officer Quincy may be willing to forget you were here," he continued, "but I still have to deal with the anonymous tip to the police. Management will expect a detailed explanation as to why someone saw an intruder in the bank after hours. So if I were you, I would get going before I change my mind about asking Officer Quincy not to arrest you."
I looked searchingly in his eyes and then stalked out of the bank. I was angry with him for not letting me explain, b
ut I was also mad at myself for being so careless. Oh, and at Pauline for being so evil. I didn't know what was going to happen between Bradley and me, but I knew one thing for sure. The fact that Pauline had made an anonymous call to the police told me that she had something serious to hide. And I was going to make it my duty to expose her. Make that my pleasure.
13
I placed my "Italians Drink It Better" cappuccino mug on the kitchen counter and glanced at the microwave clock. It was nine a.m., which meant Veronica would be expecting me at the office any minute. But the last way I wanted to start my day was by telling my employer that I'd almost gotten arrested for burglary of a bank. So instead, I flopped down at the kitchen table and opened the bakery box in front of me.
Bradley might not have known where I would go when I left the bank last night, but I sure did—to Bittersweet Confections on Magazine Street. It was closed by the time I got there, but luckily the night baker let me in when she saw my frantic face and fancy attire. Naturally, I bought the peanut butter–banana Elvis cupcake to wolf down in the car and the decadently chocolate Bittersweet Cake to scarf up at home. The King was indirectly responsible for me entering that security room, after all, and a cake eaten following a fight with one's boyfriend can only be bittersweet.
I picked up a knife and scraped the sludgy remains of the cake bottom from the box. As I slid the yummy goo into my mouth, I remembered how angry Bradley had been. I definitely had some 'splainin' to do, but I couldn't figure out what I was going to say. As far as he was concerned, Pauline was a dedicated professional, and I was just a jealous girlfriend. (Okay, the last part was true, but only partially.) To add insult to injury, I'd promised to get along with her—the mere thought of which almost made the cake come back up—so I could hardly tell him my suspicions. No, I needed hard, cold evidence before I talked to Bradley, and I planned to get it.
I polished off the last of the cake sludge and dialed the office. While the line was ringing, something bumped against the back door. Napoleon was out like a light on the chaise lounge, so I knew it wasn't him trying to get in. Worried that it might be my aggressor coming to peel me like a pineapple, I opened the gold velour curtains of the window beside my kitchen table and peered into the backyard. Fortunately, I didn't see anyone.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 41