Maybe's head fell backwards onto the beanbag. "She said she could tell by what Amber was saying that her mom was telling her how to get rid of Curaçao."
"Get rid of her?" Carnie echoed, moving to stand in front of Maybe.
"You know, make her go away," she explained. "But Curaçao said she wasn't going anywhere until Amber paid her back for stealing Shakey."
"How could she do that?" I asked. "With money?"
"No, Curaçao didn't want that," she replied, waving her wine. "She wanted Amber's necklace."
My pulse picked up, and I glanced at Carnie. "Did she get it?"
Maybe chugged the rest of her wine. "Beats me."
Carnie leaned over the beanbag. "What did she tell you about this necklace?"
She dropped the empty bottle onto the clothes-covered floor. Then she plucked a feather from Carnie's dress and wiped her mouth with it. "Just that Amber stole it from some drag queen with serious RBF."
Carnie's eyes narrowed to slits and her cheeks turned blood red. And with her mad Mimi makeup and Dolly Parton 'do, she looked like she'd walked right off the set of the '80s horror flick Killer Klowns from Outer Space.
I looked at Maybe, whose face was frozen with fear. "What's RBF?"
"Resting Bitch Face," she whisper-whined.
Well, if the "drag queen" description hadn't been enough to identify Carnie, the "RBF" certainly had.
Before Carnie could flip her wig and Maybe could flood her basement (drag for "wet herself"), I yanked Carnie out of the house and wrestled her into the car.
As I sped from the duplex, I wondered how I was going to find Amber's mother, and where I was going to look for Curaçao next. Because I'd just learned one thing for sure. Curaçao had ripped that necklace from Amber's neck the night of the murder. What I needed to confirm now was whether she'd killed her too.
10
"What is this place?" Carnie squawked from the sidewalk. "A Soviet waxing salon?"
I pulled myself from the car and winced. I'd jacked up my back trying to get Carnie into the Mustang at Maybe's house, and it wasn't the only casualty of the scuffle. Carnie's feathers were ruffled—as in the ones on her dress—and a lot of them were broken. I just hoped that none of my vertebrae were. "What are you even talking about?"
"Guuurl, look at the door," she ordered. "Vaxing for Vomen?"
"That's weird," I said as I pulled Amber's credit card bill from my bag. "I drove by here a few days ago."
Carnie plucked her compact from the feather nest between her breasts and checked her crown. "I thought we were looking for Waxing Salon."
"That's the name on the charge," I replied, glancing from the bill to the sign, "but the address is a match. I guess whoever scratched off the other half of those W's also removed the business name."
"Well, let's go in and get this over with." She pulled down her wig and yanked up her dress. "But from the sound of things, I'd best look elsewhere for my waxing needs."
As I pushed open the door, I felt a rush of gratitude for whoever had altered that sign.
"What'd I tell ya?" Carnie breathed as she entered the waiting room behind me. "It looks like Little Moscow in here."
She was right. The interior was a drab gray with chunky antique furniture, and the only decorations were a portrait of Gorbachev on the wall and a hammer and sickle flag in the pencil holder on the desk. Nevertheless, I found the austere, utilitarian atmosphere to be a vast improvement over Maybe's house.
A sixty-something woman with spiky, maroon-tinted hair and the body of a matryoshka doll emerged from behind a black curtain. "You vant vax?"
My eyebrows shot up. So now I knew that the other half of those W's had not been scratched off. "Uh, no. I'm Franki Amato," I said, handing her my business card, "and I'm investigating the murder of a young woman named Amber Brown."
She scrutinized my card like a comrade checking papers at a Communist checkpoint and then slipped it into the pocket of her smock. "Nadezhda Dmitriyeva."
The second she said her name it occurred to me that she looked like Boris from the Rocky and Bullwinkle show but sounded like Natasha. "Are you the owner of this salon?"
Nadezhda sneer-smiled revealing a missing eye tooth, making me glad I had that appointment with Dr. Lessler. "I specialize in Brazilian and Sicilian."
She caught me off guard with that revelation. I'd heard of the Brazilian, but based on what I knew about Sicilian-American women, the practice of bikini waxing was as foreign as foot-binding.
"That's good to know and all," Carnie interjected. "But like the woman said, we're here to talk to you about Amber."
Nadezhda's dark eyes bore into mine as she jerked her head in Carnie's direction. "Who is him?"
Carnie gasped and drew a hand to her bosom. "Listen, Babushka. You've got a lot of nerve throwing shade like that with your Sharon Osbourne 'do."
I held my breath as I waited for the outburst, but the hair jab rolled off Nadezhda like vodka off a Cossack's back.
She pursed her lips and clasped her hands behind her. "What means 'trow shade'?"
"To criticize," Carnie replied, smoothing her feathers. "In this case, my lady look."
Nadezhda raised a well-waxed brow and turned to me. "Amber was regular client," she announced. "For one year."
Something about her sudden proclamation made me suspect that she'd been rehearsing her answers. I decided to put her honesty to the test. "When was the last time you saw her?"
She jutted out her lower lip. "Two weeks since today."
The timeframe corresponded to the charge on the credit card bill, but it was no guarantee that she'd tell me the truth about anything else. "Amber started coming to your salon at around the same time she quit a job at Madame Moiselle's Strip Club. She supposedly wanted to quit the sex industry and 'go clean.' Did she ever mention that to you?"
Nadezhda shook her head, but she was avoiding my gaze.
"What about her financial situation?" I pressed. "Do you happen to know where she was working this past year or if someone was giving her money?"
She walked to the reception desk and began unloading supplies from a cardboard box. "Not my business."
My instincts told me that Nadezhda made everything her business, so I tried another angle. "I know that clients often confide in their estheticians. Did Amber ever seem worried about anything? Or did she mention any problems she was having?"
"She had problem with her mama," she replied, pointing a package of waxing sticks at me. "Ze woman is Nazi."
"Talk about the Commie calling the Fascist black," Carnie intoned as she pretended to admire the Gorbachev portrait.
A pain shot through my backside that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with my injury. "Can you elaborate on that, Nadezhda?"
Her dark brow furrowed. "She call too much. Every time Amber come here, zey fight on phone."
I, of all people, knew that it wasn't unusual for mothers and daughters to argue, but I found it telling that Amber's mother had made such a bad impression on at least two people, and especially on a tough woman like Nadezhda. "Do you know anything about her mother? A name or an address?"
"Nyet." She pulled a tub of cream wax from the box.
I swallowed my disappointment as I pulled my pad and pen from my bag. "What kinds of things did they fight about?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes money, sometimes her man friend."
"Wait." Carnie held up her hand in a stopping motion. "You mean Amber had a boy toy?"
She put her hand on her hip. "Zat's right, darlink. What else?"
"No need to get nasty, Nadezhda," Carnie replied, fluffing her curls.
I sighed and resolved to beg Veronica to free me from the cohort cross she was making me bear. "What can you tell us about this man?"
"Nusink," she replied, resuming her unpacking.
I wondered whether that was because she didn't know anything or because she didn't want to tell me. "Do you remember anything about Amber's demeanor during her last ap
pointment? Like, was she happy or depressed?"
Nadezhda took a seat behind the desk. "Her mama call," she replied in a low voice. "Zey have big argument about necklace."
"What about the necklace?" Carnie asked, rising to her feet.
"Her mama did not like." She shook her index finger. "She tell her not to wear."
Carnie gasped. "My mother designed that necklace, and it was fierce."
"Your mama design pentagram?" Nadezhda's lips curled. "Not surprise."
Carnie's clown brows rose to her wigline, and my mind flashed to the stained glass pentagram at Erzulie's.
"Nadezhda," I began, trying to keep a neutral tone, "do you think there was any special significance to the pentagram? Or was it a fashion statement?"
She looked me square in the eyes. "You tell me."
The door opened, and an elderly gentleman with hairy ears entered and did a double take when he caught sight of Carnie in all her yellow-feathered splendor.
Carnie held his gaze in a seductive stare and rubbed her hands down her Big Bird belly.
I rolled my eyes and grasped the door handle. "We'll leave you to your work," I said, hoping that the man was there to get his lobes weed-whacked. "But I'll be in touch."
The minute we got outside Carnie cornered me. "What do you make of that pentagram?"
"I'm not sure," I replied, heading for the car.
But that wasn't entirely true. Because if the pentagram necklace meant what I thought it did, then this case was about to take a dark turn.
"Bradley!" I exclaimed as he leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek.
"I figured I'd find you here," he said as he slid next to me in the booth at Thibodeaux's Tavern, aka my home away from home thirty steps from my front door.
I snuggled up to him. "I thought you weren't going to be back until later tonight?"
"I caught an earlier flight." He winked at Veronica who was sitting across from me and held out his hand to her boyfriend. "Bradley Hartmann."
Dirk flashed a movie-star smile. "Dirk Bogart," he said with a handshake. "You're with Pontchartrain Bank, right?"
"For the time being," Bradley replied, slipping his arm around my shoulders.
I shifted uncomfortably. I couldn't tell whether that was a casual remark or an indication that something had gone really wrong at the board meeting, but I knew that it wasn't the right time to ask, especially if I was part of his "professional problem."
"I'm not interrupting, am I?" Bradley asked as his eyes searched my face.
"Actually, we both are." I glanced apologetically at Veronica. "I saw Veronica and Dirk through the window as I was pulling into the driveway, so I decided to pop in and say hello."
Veronica looked from my empty plates to Bradley. "That was an hour ago," she observed drily. "I guess you know that Brenda and Carmela arrived last night for an unexpected visit?"
"No, but I thought I recognized that Ford Taurus parked out front," Bradley replied with a twinkle in his eye.
For reasons I could never understand, he always looked amused when the subject of my family came up, which was pretty incredible given that when he'd met them last Christmas my mom and nonna had tried to "mafia-wife" him into marrying me. At least he could laugh about it.
"Anyway," Veronica began, "Dirk's a gemologist, and he was telling us about the Amber Room."
Bradley cocked a brow. "The room the Nazis stole from the Russians?"
"That's the one," Dirk replied with a nod. "Although the Nazis felt that Germany never should've given it to Russia, which is why they packed it up all six tons of it in '41 and moved it to Königsberg Castle."
I stirred my Campari and soda. "If they took the room back, then where did it go?"
Dirk ran his fingers through his reddish-blond hair. "That's the question politicians, researchers, and treasure hunters have been asking since 1945. The Nazis moved the room again when the Allies began bombing Königsberg, and no one has seen it since."
Bradley turned to me. "Why are you so interested in the Amber Room?"
I averted my eyes. Since Veronica and I were under orders from Detective Sullivan not to discuss certain details of the crime scene, I couldn't let on that this was connected to my case. "I don't know." I hedged, feigning an interest in my drink straw. "It's been in the news a lot lately."
Veronica cleared her throat. "Franki, Dirk says that before the Nazis made it to Catherine Palace, the Russian curator of the room tried to take it apart to hide it, but the amber was so brittle that it started cracking and splintering, so he had it covered with fake walls instead. He catalogued 28 amber shards that had broken off various parts of the room."
I looked up from my straw and met her gaze.
"I'm assuming that more pieces broke off when the Nazis took it apart too," she added with a slight nod.
I knew what Veronica was trying to tell me—that Carnie's grandmother could very well have picked up a piece of the Amber Room.
"Just think," Dirk said with a shake of his head. "We could all retire on what one of those shards is worth today."
"But isn't amber prehistoric tree resin?" Bradley asked. "I mean, how much could that be worth?"
"The history of this amber is what makes it priceless, and I'm not only referring to the mystery," Dirk replied with a knowing look. "It was a masterpiece of eighteenth century artistry that was widely considered to be the Eighth Wonder of the World. And, in fact, experts agree that the replica of the room the Russians unveiled in 2003 doesn't hold a candle to the 1716 version. Today at auction, a tiny piece of the original room could fetch millions."
I almost coughed up my Campari. Maybe had said that Curaçao wanted the necklace as payback for Amber stealing her man, and if Curaçao had even the slightest inkling of what the pendant was worth, it could've given her more incentive to kill Amber.
Phillip, the bartender, approached Bradley. "Yo, can I get you something, bro?"
He tapped his fingers on the table. "I'll take an Abita. Jockamo IPA, if you've got it."
"Coming right up." Phillip flipped his long, dirty-blond bangs to one side and headed for the bar.
Bradley turned his attention back to Dirk. "Isn't there supposed to be a curse on anyone who searches for the Amber Room?"
I stiffened. Why was everything coming up curses?
"That's the rumor." Dirk smiled and raised his eyebrows. "And considering the fate of some of the people who've looked for it, it would certainly give me pause."
I scooted closer to Bradley. "Um, what do you mean 'fate'?"
"The German museum director in charge of hiding the amber died under mysterious circumstances along with his wife, and their bodies vanished," Dirk replied, peeling the label off his beer bottle. "Then a Russian general died in a car crash after consulting with a journalist about the alleged location of the room." He paused to take a drink. "But the most famous incident involved a guy named Georg Stein."
Veronica opened her eyes wide. "What happened to him?"
"He was found dead in the middle of a Bavarian forest," Dirk explained. "Naked, with his stomach slit open by a scalpel."
I jumped and bumped my head into Bradley's jaw. "Ow," I said, turning to look at him. "Sorry."
He rubbed his chin and scrutinized my face.
Phillip returned with Bradley's beer, and I was grateful for the distraction. I couldn't help but wonder whether Amber had heard about the curse and whether she blamed it for the bad things that had allegedly been happening in her life. Of course, I also wanted to know whether the curse applied to someone trying to retrieve the stolen pendant, i.e., me.
"Does amber have any special properties?" Veronica asked.
Dirk put his arm around her and pulled her close. "Historically, people believed it could suppress bleeding and cure certain mental disorders, like hysteria and hypochondria."
Veronica glanced at me and then quickly looked away.
"But these days," Dirk continued, picking up his beer bottle, "the o
nly thing I've heard of people using it for is to treat babies' teething pain."
My tongue went to my tooth, and I wondered whether I could suck on a piece of amber rather than going to Dr. Lessler in the morning.
Now Veronica was openly staring at me, and I shot her a what-the-hell stare.
Dirk swallowed some beer. "In Russian folklore, amber was thought to be a powerful deflector of the evil eye."
This caught my interest, especially in light of Amber's superstitious side. "What else can you tell us about amber?"
Dirk thought for a moment. "Most of it comes from the Russian town of Yantarny, which was named after the word for amber, yantar. And there are a few popular myths about its origin. The most well known is the one about a Lithuanian queen named Jurate."
I swallowed the last of my Campari. "Never heard of her."
"Well," he said, straightening in his seat, "legend has it that she lived in an amber castle beneath the Baltic Sea. And one day, she went to punish a young fisherman named Kastytis for depleting the sea of fish, but she fell in love with him instead. The god of thunder was furious that an immortal goddess had fallen in love with a mortal man, so he struck her castle, shattering it into millions of pieces."
"What did he do to the fisherman?" Bradley asked in a wry tone.
"There are a several endings to the legend," Dirk replied. "But according to the most popular version, the thunder god killed him, and Jurate still mourns him and weeps tears of amber."
Veronica snuggled closer to Dirk. "What a beautiful love story."
"Actually, it's kind of confusing," I said, stabbing at my ice with my straw. "I thought the amber came from Jurate's shattered castle, not her tears. Plus, she's not a real queen."
Dirk shrugged. "They call her a queen, but she's basically a sea goddess."
"A sea goddess?" I sat straight up, knocking Bradley in the chin for a second time. "Ow," I said, looking back at him. "Sorry."
He narrowed his eyes and took a sip of his beer.
I turned to Dirk. "Is Jurate by any chance a mermaid?"
"Yes," he replied, giving Veronica a squeeze. "She's the queen of all mermaids."
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 64