All jokes aside, my gut told me that Delta was more than capable of murder. But I didn't think she was the killer. Oleander Place wasn't just her livelihood, it was her legacy, and she'd demonstrated in more ways than one that she was fiercely proud and protective of it. Even if her business was in trouble, I couldn't imagine her sullying the name of her beloved plantation—not on purpose, anyway. Besides, if she'd known who Ivanna was and what she was after, she would've slapped a restraining order on her like she'd done to Kristy Patterson and her father. Problem solved.
No, Delta didn't fit the profile, but Adam was a different story. He had a motive to kill. According to Ruth, he was an alcoholic on the edge who'd worshipped Ivanna, and she'd repaid his devotion by threatening to ruin him. Then she turned to a plantation groundskeeper for help making her lip gloss. So, Adam could have viewed Miles as a threat to his job or even his relationship with Ivanna and killed them both for their betrayal.
Another possible scenario was that Adam murdered Miles, believing him to be responsible for Ivanna's death. After all, he had vowed to find the person responsible for her murder.
But Scarlett? As hard as I tried, I couldn't come up with a reason for Adam or Miles to kill her. Yet I knew her horrific hanging had everything to do with whatever it was she'd warned me I was "messing with."
As I crept along behind the hedge separating the border of the property from the swamp, I wondered for the thousandth time just what the hell I'd gotten myself into. And I wished Veronica were here with me, helping me get to the bottom of these awful crimes. When this was all over, I intended to talk to her about the way we work our cases—that is, if the killer didn't do me in first.
Halfway down the hedge, I arrived at the back of the slave quarters. I assumed that the police were keeping Troy there or at the big mill where he'd found Miles' body. I dashed to the command post window and peered inside. Troy was sitting at the table with a blanket around his shoulders. His face looked ashen, like a man who'd just seen a ghost. Or a corpse.
An officer passed by the window, so I ducked down. I heard him say something to Troy, and then he exited the building.
I waited until I saw the officer enter the house and then slipped inside the command post. "Troy! Are you okay?"
He blinked a few times as though struggling to recognize me. "I guess."
I glanced back toward the door. "Listen, where's Delta?"
"She's with Officer Quincy in her office." His voice was monotone, like he'd been sedated.
Hopefully they stay there, I thought. I had neither the time nor the inclination to get thrown in jail by Officer Quincy. "Good. I was hoping to talk to you alone. I'm trying to make sense of what happened to Miles."
Troy met my gaze, and his blue eyes looked as though their usual sparkle had been extinguished. "I got a call from Delta Sunday morning. She was in a panic because Miles hadn't shown up for the photo shoot, so she asked me to sub for him."
"I take it he never came."
He shook his head. "But during the shoot, I found his car parked behind the big mill. Delta was worried that he might be injured somewhere on the grounds, so we started searching."
"Whose idea was it to look in the kettles?" I asked. It was well known in police circles that the person who found the body was often the prime suspect.
"No one's." His speech had dropped to almost a whisper. "After we'd looked everywhere we could think of, we were on the back porch trying to figure out what to do next when we saw Delta's dogs circling the grande kettle."
Like little vultures moving in for the kill, I thought.
"So I offered to go take a look," Troy continued. "He was hit over the head with a cane syrup ladle, maybe more than once." He swallowed and averted his eyes. "The ladle was in the kettle with him, covered in blood."
I grimaced and put my hand on his forearm. "Who do you think is behind these murders?"
He stared at his coffee. His face was as blank as the plain white mug he held between his trembling hands. "When I was little, my ya-ya told me that the three Fates determined life and death. Clotho spun the thread of life on her spindle, Lachesis measured its length, and Atropos cut it short with her horrible shears."
Now was clearly not the time to press Troy for details. He was in shock. "You've been through a traumatic event. Have you thought about seeing a doctor?"
"I can't." He placed his mug on the table, taking care to center it on the coaster. "I have to help Delta tomorrow."
I recoiled at his comment. "You're going to keep working here after everything that's happened?"
"I couldn't even if I wanted to. Delta's closing Oleander Place tomorrow."
Now that was news. "Permanently?"
"Until they catch the killer," he replied.
That was a good plan. If she'd shut down the plantation earlier, Scarlett and Miles might still be alive. "Are you planning to come back to work when it reopens?"
He looked away. "It's a great job for a grad student."
It was hard for me to believe that anyone would describe working for Delta as great, but I kept my feelings to myself. "I guess you have to do what you think is best," I said, rising to my feet. "Anyway, I need to get going before Officer Quincy catches me here. Take care, Troy. And be careful."
I dashed from the room.
"Franki?" he called.
I ran back to the doorway, and I was struck by the intensity in his eyes.
"Stay away from Oleander Place," he said in his strange, flat tone. "It's not safe."
The understatement of the century, I thought as I darted for cover in the hedge.
I walked across the street to Thibodeaux's, shielding my eyes from the cemetery. I'd had enough death for one day. I pushed open the door and saw Veronica and Glenda sitting at the bar and watching the evening news on a flat screen TV.
"Hey." I tossed my bag on the barstool next to Veronica and began digging for my wallet. Despite a persistent hangover, I was ready for happy hour.
"I ordered you an absinthe," Veronica said.
My head shot up.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, repressing a smile. "Glenda told me about your escapades at Shore Leave, so I thought I'd order you a cocktail worthy of a corsair."
I sealed my lips tight. I wasn't going to say a word in case there was something about last night I didn't know and didn't want everyone at the tavern to know either.
Phillip approached and placed a fluted glass on the bar napkin in front of me. "Here's your Prosecco."
I smirked at Veronica and slid onto my stool.
Glenda lowered her metallic gold bifocals, which matched her one-legged catsuit to a T. "Miss Ronnie hornswaggled you, sugar."
I took a long sip of my drink. "If the two of you don't mind, I'd like to put my pirating days behind me. Besides, I'm not really in the mood for jokes."
The smile faded from Veronica's lips. "We know you're taking this case really hard, Franki. We were only trying to cheer you up."
"That's nice of you, but I'm past that point." I looked at Glenda. "I suppose you told her about Bradley and Pauline too?"
Glenda tossed back a shot of tequila. "Just the lowlights, sugar."
Veronica put her hand on mine. "I'm so sorry this happened."
I sighed. "Honestly, with all the murders and the death threat, my relationship with Bradley doesn't seem that important right now."
Veronica nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. "What did you find out at the plantation?"
I crossed my elbows on the bar. "Basically, that I'm a failure as a PI."
Glenda slammed her second shot glass onto the bar. "Now why in heaven's name would you think that?"
"Because my suspects are dropping like flies, and I don't have a clue who's killing them," I replied, waving my arms like an orchestra conductor.
Veronica gave a frustrated flip of her hair. "Franki, you were a cop, so you of all people should know that there are countless homicide cases that even the best de
tectives can't solve."
"Take me, for example," Glenda said. "Back in the day, I was the hottest strip act in the South, and I do mean hot." She put a finger to her lone, nude butt cheek and made a sizzling sound. "And yet I can't whip a bunch of newbie dancers into shape."
"What do you mean?" I asked, failing to see the connection between me, her behind, and her stripper students.
"After almost two weeks, my boot camp is still nothing but a booty camp. Thanks to rap music, girls these days think the only thing to stripping is butt work, and the ones I'm training can't even do that well. Yesterday one of them was supposed to twerk, but she booty popped instead."
"So?" I was more bewildered than before. "What difference does it make?"
Glenda pointed a gold-gloved finger at me. "I'll tell you what difference it makes. The popper knocked her unsuspecting partner off the damn stage and dislocated the girl's shoulder."
"That's a serious mistake," Veronica said, her eyes wide.
"You're telling me." Glenda shook her head. "Try as I might, I do not understand why we can't attract quality girls to the stripping profession."
Try as I might, I couldn't understand what Glenda's booty-camp misadventures had to do with my misinvestigation. But I appreciated that she was trying to help.
Veronica patted my thigh. "You see? Sometimes even the best in the business have no control over a situation."
"I guess," I replied, grabbing my glass. "But I feel like there's something I'm missing. Like if I had this one piece of information, the puzzle would be complete." I took a sip of my Prosecco and watched as Phillip put whipped cream on a strawberry daiquiri. "And I still want to know what flavor of alcohol is pink."
Glenda looked at my glass. "The nectar of the Gods comes in pink."
"Ambrosia?" I asked, confused.
"Champagne, sugar," she replied in a bite-your-tongue tone. "Your Prosecco comes in pink too."
I felt a jolt go through my body. Ivanna's mother, Rosa, was from the region where Prosecco was made, and her name was Italian for "pink." And now that I thought about it, the Lacour diamond was alleged to be the very same shade as the Prosecco—coral pink. That’s why Ivanna was so obsessed with getting the color of the lip gloss just right! It wasn’t just her perfectionism at play—it was her desire to memorialize her mother.
I hopped off my barstool and grabbed my phone. "Glenda, you might've just solved one of the mysteries of this case. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" Veronica asked, her brows knitted in concern.
"Outside to call Ivanna's father. I can't hear over the TV." I rushed out the door and held my breath as I dialed the number.
"Hello?" Liam's tone was pleasant but tinged with sadness.
"This is Franki Amato," I said. "Do you have a moment to talk?"
"Yes," he replied. "How can I help you?"
I sat on the curb, resting my elbows on my knees. "I've been thinking about the lip gloss Ivanna was holding, and I was wondering if you knew whether Rosa liked pink Prosecco."
"It was her favorite drink," he replied with a note of surprise in his voice. "It's made in the town of Monteforte d'Alpone where she grew up."
I was so excited I did a fist pump. "Did Ivanna know that?"
"Oh, yes. From the time she was eight or nine years old, Rosa would let her have a small glass—mixed with water, of course. You know how Europeans are about alcohol." He chuckled. "Ivanna would complain every time Rosa added the water."
"Because it diluted the alcohol?" I mean, I would have been disappointed too.
"Because it changed the color," he replied. "Ivanna was always particular about her colors."
Indeed she was, I thought. So much so that she was willing to use poisonous oleander flowers to get the right shade for her lip gloss. "Liam, I think that lip gloss was for Rosa. I can't prove it, but I'd be willing to bet that Ivanna was planning to call it 'Prosecco Pink.'"
"That sounds like a product she would've had in her line," he said. "And I know she wanted to honor her mother."
"I'm sure she would have, too, if she'd had the chance."
Liam was silent for a moment. "Do you have any news about the death of the groundskeeper?"
I sighed. "Not yet. But you'll be the first person I call when I do."
"I would appreciate that. And thank you for telling me about the lip gloss. It's good to have at least one answer in this case."
"I couldn't agree more. Bye now."
I closed the call and immediately thought of Chandra. The day I met her, she said that the ghost who'd gotten me in this mess had done something bad, and it involved a relative. If Chandra was for real, then that spirit was Ivanna, not Evangeline. Did that mean Ivanna was the spirit pulling the handle of the French door? If so, why? Was she in danger and trying to get out? Or was there some other reason?
"Pff!" I exclaimed as I stood up. The ghost angle was too absurd to even think about. I brushed off the seat of my jeans and went back inside Thibodeaux's.
Glenda and Veronica were again fixated on the TV. But so was everyone else in the bar.
I slid onto my barstool and gazed at the screen. "What's going on?"
Veronica's mouth was set in a grim line. "Adam was arrested for the murders a little while ago."
I felt like I'd turned to stone. But on the inside, emotions were coursing through my body like liquid fire. Sadness, guilt, and relief flooded through me at the same time. Yet for some reason, I was anxious too. I could tell that Veronica was waiting for me to react, so I blurted out, "Then the case is solved."
"It looks that way." She put her hand on my back. "Franki, an entire police team was working the case, but there was only one of you. So, don't beat yourself up about this. Okay?"
"Yeah, just look at the positive side," Glenda said, jumping off her barstool. "You don't need pirate protection anymore."
"Right!" Veronica nodded with way too much enthusiasm.
"But now that I think about it, sugar," Glenda added, pulling her catsuit out of her crotch, "that's the negative side." She cackled and slapped her bare leg.
I said nothing and turned my attention to the news coverage. As I watched a ragged-looking Adam being lead into the police station in handcuffs, I felt a growing sense of apprehension. I'd suspected him of the killings as recently as this morning, and yet his arrest didn't sit right with me.
My phone began to vibrate in my hand, startling me from my stupor. Ruth Walker's name was on the display.
I stood up and headed for the door. "This is Franki."
"I thought you'd have called me by now," she barked.
"I just saw the news a few seconds ago," I protested as I exited the bar. I don't know why Ruth persisted in thinking that I should report to her.
"Well, I, for one, am not buying this arrest nonsense."
I stopped short. "What? You were so sure that Adam was involved in Ivanna's murder."
"Yes, but the police are saying that he had belladonna at the lab. And that's utter hogwash."
"How can you be sure? Adam is a chemist."
"Because I drove by Lickalicious Lips this morning and found Ivanna's father there. He was kind enough to let me help myself to anything in the office since he's shutting down the business. So, I went through the place with a fine-tooth comb, and there was no poison there."
Although I was quite sure that Ruth had impeccable strip-the-office-clean skills, I had my doubts about the absence of the poison. "Maybe he hid it in the ceiling or something."
She snorted. "Trust me, I know all the places the man stashed his liquor, and they were empty."
This from a woman who claimed not to drink.
"Now I know I said he was capable of killing Ivanna," she continued, "but something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
"Are you suggesting that the police planted the belladonna?"
There was a pause, and I heard what sounded like the tinkling of ice in a rocks glass followed by a loud slurping sound
.
"Not necessarily," she replied a bit out of breath.
"Then who do you think did?"
Ruth harrumphed. "That's your problem."
"Thanks," I said under my breath.
"You're welcome," she was quick to reply. "I'll thank you the day you find the killer," she added, crunching an ice cube. "I'm on pins and needles here wondering if I'm his next victim."
"I know the feeling," I muttered. "But now that there's been an arrest in the case, my client's going to terminate my contract."
"Then you'll have to go it alone," she said. "I'll talk to you soon."
As I shoved my phone into my back pocket, Ruth's words weighed on my mind. I already felt like I was going it alone, but at least I was getting paid. I wondered whether I could afford to continue investigating the case for free, even though I already knew I had no choice. If Adam wasn't guilty, I had to keep looking for the killer—for my own safety and everyone else's.
The real question was whether there was a chance that Adam was guilty. I flashed back to the day Veronica and I had seen him packing the trunk of his Corvette. He was upset, and I was positive he'd been drinking. And while it was certainly possible that he'd left evidence behind, I didn't think it likely. Careless, forgetful types didn't earn PhDs in chemistry.
But if he didn't leave the belladonna in the lab, then who put it there? Delta?
Or was it Dr. Jones?
21
After what seemed like an eternity, the toaster finally popped. I grabbed the hot waffles with the tips of my fingers and tossed them into a bowl. Yes, a bowl. My plan was to drown my sorrows in waffles drowning in syrup because nothing had turned out like I'd hoped—not the Jones case, not the Pauline case, not my job with Veronica, and certainly not my relationship with Bradley.
"Breakfast is ready!" I called.
Napoleon jumped off the chaise lounge and sped into the kitchen.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 49