Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  He rose to his feet and ran his hand through his blondish-brown hair. "Oh. Because I asked her what it was, and she said it was a veve."

  I looked up at him. "What's that?"

  His mouth twisted into a smirk-smile. "Supposedly, it's a religious emblem that acts as a conduit for a voodoo god."

  I wanted to return his sarcastic grin, but I couldn't. Not only was I losing control of my lips, I was also struggling to keep control of my nerves. In a town like New Orleans, a voodoo candle and some incense were one thing, but a voodoo conduit was quite another.

  While I was heading for home to let the lidocaine wear off, my "Shake Your Booty" ringtone sounded. I wasn't planning on talking because my lips felt like lead, but then I saw David's name on the display. He usually only called if he needed a work assignment or had some information for me, so I tapped answer as I pulled up to a stoplight. "Hello?"

  "Hey, Franki," David boomed into the receiver. "I finished that Etsy research, and Veronica told me to ask if there's anything you need me to do today."

  Now that I'd finally questioned Dr. Lessler, the most pressing item of business on my agenda was finding Amber's mother. "I nee you oo look hor Ammmer's odder."

  There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

  "Uh, you need me to look for a whore and an udder," he repeated.

  "No," I wailed, both because he was wrong and because I flashed back to Glenda and Bit-O-Honey's boobs bobbling over me. "I'll teksh you."

  "Riiight." He paused. "You do that."

  I was pretty sure that he hadn't understood me, but I figured he could just wait for my text. What I needed to know was what he had for me from Etsy about Amber's purchase. "Ut do you ha hor e?"

  "Are you, like, speaking Italian?" he asked in a bewildered tone.

  I slammed the back of my head into the headrest. Although the kid did have a point—I was using an awful lot of vowels. "No, Eshee."

  "Yeah, so I'm good with programming languages, but foreign ones? Not so much. Anyway, this lady at Etsy emailed me a picture of what Amber bought. It's a necklace."

  Given the significance of all the necklaces in this case, I was eager to get a look at that picture. "I nee duh icshure."

  "Uh-huh," he said, clearly oblivious. "I forwarded the email to you, so, um… later."

  "Anks." The light turned green, and I took the first right into the parking lot of Tulane University so that I could check my email. When I finally found the message and opened the picture, I gasped.

  It was an exact replica of Carnie's amber necklace.

  12

  "It's Now or Never," I muttered, quoting The King as I climbed from my Mustang. It was ten thirty, and I'd been parked in front of my house for the past hour, dreading going inside. When I'd returned home from the dentist, there was no sign of the Taurus, but I found a flock of FIATs parked in and around the driveway. I knew instantly that my nonna had invited her friends over—after all, the FIAT was the Pope's preferred ride. So in the interests of self-preservation, I'd stayed in the car until the lidocaine wore off, because when dealing with a gaggle of Sicilian nonne it was imperative that you be able to speak.

  As I strode up the walkway, my apartment door flew open, and Glenda darted outside like a prostitute fleeing a police raid.

  "What were you doing in there?" I asked, not without a note of panic. I'd intended to introduce Glenda to my family gradually—you know, like when you add fresh pasta to a pot of boiling water.

  She dragged off her cigarette holder like it was a lifeline. "I came here looking for you," she replied, exhaling smoke as she spoke. "But before I knew what'd hit me, the Lilliputians had tied me up in this straitjacket."

  The "Lilliputians" were, of course, my nonna and her nonne friends, none of whom were over five feet in height. And the so-called "straitjacket" was an Italian-flag-colored bib apron that read, "If you like my meatballs, wait till you try my sausage." Obviously, the nonne had used it to cover Glenda's nudity but hadn't grasped the double entendre. "Sorry about that. I was getting a cavity filled at Dr. Lessler's office."

  Her brow shot up and her hip jutted out. "Mitchell Lessler?"

  I nodded and rubbed my jaw.

  A sultry smile spread across her face. "That handsome hunk of man can fill my cavity anytime."

  "Forget about Lessler," I said, because now I really wanted her to. "What are the Lilliputians doing in there?"

  "At first I thought they were having a funeral, sugar, but they said that Miss Santina's oven broke." Glenda yanked at the halter of her apron as though it were a noose around her neck. "So your nonna brought everyone over here since there are three ovens."

  The funeral part I could understand since the nonne were perpetually in mourning dress, but it took me a second to register what she'd meant by "three ovens." Then I figured it out—mine, Veronica's, and… "They're baking in your kitchen too?"

  She took another deep drag off her cigarette. "They've invaded the entire fourplex, Miss Franki."

  My jaw dropped, and I covered my mouth with my hands.

  "Even your costume closet?" I whispered, referring to the forbidden fourth apartment, the sole purpose of which was to house Glenda's prized collection of stripper wear.

  She shook her head. "I convinced them that the kitchen was out of commission."

  "Grazie a Dio," I breathed. Letting the nonne go inside Glenda's costume closet would've been like sending Santa's Elves to an S&M dungeon. "Where are my mom and nonna?"

  "They took an extra bag of lemons to the church." She flicked some ash from her cigarette. "Do they serve lemonade at this St. Joseph's Day soiree?"

  "Something like that," I replied, my tone as acidic as the yellow fruit.

  The door to my apartment flew open again, and this time Santina Messina, Bruno's mom, appeared in the threshold. "Francesca!" she cried, clasping her hands. "Figlia mia!"

  I was surprised to see her out of the wheelchair, but there was no time to comment. Instead, I assumed the customary limp position as she pinched my cheeks and smashed my face into her ample bosom, cutting off my air supply and cramming her cross necklace into my forehead. Thanks to the suffocating embraces of Santina and others like her, when I was a kid I not only frequently bore the sign of the cross on my skin, but I could hold my breath longer than anyone in my elementary school.

  When she finally released me, I was excited to find that I could've held out another thirty seconds. I might be thirty, but I still had the lungs of a child.

  "Venite, venite," Santina urged, gesturing for us to follow her.

  Glenda stubbed out her cigarette, and we went inside.

  Thanks to a slew of twenty-five-pound flour sacks, endless crates of eggs, and a squad of not-so-lean but definitely mean nonne, my apartment looked and smelled more like an old world Sicilian bakery than a seventies brothel. I was kind of excited about the transformation, even though I was disappointed to see that the only thing the nonne were baking was bread.

  Santina led us to the kitchen, and while I greeted the other nonne, she began filling the table with food—grissini, bread, an antipasti plate, lasagne, sardines, veal cutlets, eggplant, bell peppers, and a bottle of Nero d'Avola.

  Meanwhile, Napoleon, who'd grown quite fond of the nonne and their food, assumed his begging spot beside the table.

  "Mangia!" she exclaimed, shoving Glenda into a seat.

  Glenda, who'd never been seen eating, grabbed a grissino and held the pencil-sized breadstick like she did her cigarette holder.

  I, on the other hand, dug in with gusto, glad that my mouth was fully functional. And as I popped a piece of prosciutto into my mouth, it occurred to me that besides the food, the best things about nonne were that they called you "my child" regardless of your age, they thought you were wasting away no matter what your size, and they let you drink wine with pretty much every meal.

  Santina pulled a bag of Swamp Nuts from her apron pocket and pressed it into my hand, beaming as though
the Cajun-flavored corn nuts were nuggets of gold. "Da Bruno."

  I forced a smile at Bruno's untimely concession-stand gift.

  "Pass me those nuts, sugar," Glenda said, showing a rare interest in an edible item. "Maybe if I have a few of these, Mitchell Lessler can do some drilling on me."

  I rolled my eyes and, since we were in the presence of the nonne, tried to steer the topic away from sex. "How do you know Lessler, anyway?"

  Glenda picked up the bag and began fondling it like a sex toy. "In the stripping business, we share doctors like we do body oil."

  A rolling pin clattered to the floor as the nonne stopped baking and began furiously crossing themselves.

  So much for a sex-free conversation.

  "Was Mitchell able to tell you anything about Amber?" Glenda continued, contemplating the corn nuts.

  I glanced at the nonne and leaned forward. "It seemed like he thought that Amber was into voodoo, but her waxer implied that it was witchcraft," I replied in a low voice. "What I don't get is why Amber would need to resort to either one of those things if she was a tough, no-nonsense feminist like Saddle and Bit-O-Honey say."

  "New Orleans has a long history of exotic dancing and an even longer history of mysticism and black magic, Miss Franki," Glenda explained as Santina deposited an empty plate in front of her and pointed at the food.

  She locked eyes with Santina as she grabbed the grissino again, this time brandishing it like a bat, and then she turned to me. "I've seen girls come from as far away as Slovakia to dance here, and sooner or later they all do some kind of ritual before going onstage. And most of them will tell you that they don't do the ritual in any other city."

  "A ritual I can understand," I said, pouring myself a glass of wine. "For example, I always put my clothes on in the same order."

  "I'm not talking about OCD." She pointed the grissino at me. "I mean an honest to goodness ritual. I know this dancer from L.A. who buys an altar candle to gods and goddesses like Chango Macho or Oshun every time she comes here to help manifest her intention."

  When she said "Chango," my mind drifted to Changos Taqueria in Austin. "I'm sorry," I said, shaking myself from my Tex-Mex trance, "but did you say 'manifest her intention'?"

  "Stripping is all about bringing attitude, money, and intent, sugar, and strip clubs are dark places. To be successful, you have to bring light into the club. So a dancer may do a candle ceremony, anoint herself with oil, carry a gris-gris bag, chant a spell, or whatever else to set her intent for luck, money, or beauty."

  I slipped Napoleon a slice of soppressata. "But some of those things are voodoo, and some are witchcraft."

  Glenda hiked up her apron and crossed her glittered legs, provoking a "Santo Dio!," a "Gesù mio!," and an "Oh, Signore!" from the nonne.

  "It's a matter of preference," she explained, immune to their exclamations. "But what it boils down to is this—there's a belief in the industry, and in the city at large, that the spirit of New Orleans has to bless you if you want to be here and do well."

  "Now you tell me." I grabbed my wine and wondered if that was where I'd gone wrong on the curse front. "Do you think that's what Amber was doing in the bathtub?"

  "It doesn't square up to me," Glenda replied, flipping back her hair. "She wasn't dancing anymore—at least not for strip-club patrons."

  I looked up from my glass. "What do you mean by that?"

  She shrugged and tugged at her bib. "Maybe she danced for the devil."

  I gasped. "As in satanic worship?"

  There was a clatter of bread pans as several of the nonne dropped to their knees and invoked the assistance of the Madonna.

  "Just kidding," I announced, my face as red as the wine.

  Glenda eyed the nonne over her shoulder as though they were devil worshippers. "All I meant was that maybe Amber crossed paths with a plain old psychopath."

  I sat back and sipped my wine. After talking to Dr. Lessler and Glenda, I was more confused than ever about what had gone on inside Madame Moiselle's. What I needed was some clarity. "Can you do something for me?"

  "Shoot, sugar," she replied, waving her grissino like a wand.

  "Go to the club and talk to Saddle and Bit-O-Honey," I said, reaching into my purse for my wallet. "I want to know whether they ever saw or heard Amber doing any rituals, and what rituals the other dancers at the club do. Also, find out whether anyone has heard from Curaçao."

  "Consider it done," she said, bouncing her crossed leg. "Where are you off to this fine morning?"

  I pulled a business card from my coin purse. "I'm going to track down a warped witch."

  "Was it necessary to meet in a graveyard?" I asked as I followed Theodora through St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans's oldest burial ground and the final resting place for some of its most famous and infamous citizens. Between the creepy crypts and her black caftan, I was getting a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. "There's a CC's Coffee nearby, you know."

  Her lips twisted like an old tree root. "I don't drink coffee. Besides, I have friends to see."

  I started to tell her that as a three-hundred-year-old woman she might benefit from the energy boost, but I was too fearful of those "friends" she'd mentioned. "They're not coming to meet you now, are they?"

  "They don't have to." She stopped in front of a crumbling gray mausoleum dated 1792 and patted the façade as though greeting an old pal. "They're already here."

  A shiver shot through my spine like a spell from a sorceress's finger. As usual, this witch was weirding me out, and somehow it didn't help that she'd covered her crazy cat eyes with cat-eye sunglasses.

  Theodora gave the ghoulish grave one last caress and resumed walking, her caftan billowing behind her like a shroud. "Why'd you summon me?"

  I pulled the collar of my pea coat around my neck and stepped carefully along the cracked and broken concrete walkway. "I'm investigating a murder, and I need to know whether witches and voodoo practitioners ever borrow each other's methods."

  She stopped dead in her tomb tracks. "Not on your life."

  Like my nonna taught me, I pointed my index and pinky fingers down to cancel the curse she'd cast my way.

  She cackled Maleficent-style. "What was that little gesture?"

  I blinked, wishing that she hadn't seen my hand. According to Italian custom, there was an alternative to the gesture—men could tap one of their testicles, and women could touch iron. But that presented a problem for those of us who didn't know our metals. "It's called scongiuri."

  "It's novices like you who mix witchcraft, voodoo, and hoodoo," she said, pointing at my forehead. "Around here they call that Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft."

  I lowered myself a little—on the off chance that she could actually shoot spells from her fingertip. "Is that jazz-inspired or something?"

  She sighed, and I would swear that I saw a puff of smoke come out. "It's the everyday kind of witchcraft that your great-great grandmother used to do, but with a touch of voodoo or hoodoo thrown in."

  I was a little taken aback by her assumption that my bis-bis-nonna was a witch. But if my nonna was any indication, Theodora may have been onto something. "Can you elaborate on that?"

  "It's just goal-oriented spell-casting."

  "Oh, goal-oriented," I stressed in an it-was-as-obvious-as-the-wart-on-your-face tone. "As opposed to your regular, slacker spell-casting?"

  She glanced over her shoulder, and for a split second it looked like her green eyes glowed behind her sunglass lenses. "It's the kind of spell work you do if you want something, like a job or a mate, but you need a little help to make it happen. It used to consist mainly of traditional supplies, but these days you can get more specialized items at Erzulie's and at Hex Old World Witchery down on Decatur."

  Decatur Street was where Private Chicks was located, and as you can imagine, I wasn't wild about the news of the witchery.

  "Look at the voodoo queen Marie Laveau's grave, and you'll see what I mean." She led me to an old, G
reek Revival–style tomb covered with large x's.

  I gasped. The marks were like the ones in Lili St. Cyr's bathtub—some were even circled. "What are those X's?"

  "Years ago some fool started the rumor that if you want Marie Laveau to grant your wish, you have to draw an X on the tomb, turn around three times, knock on the tomb, and then shout your wish. If it's granted, you have to come back and draw a circle around your X and leave Marie a gift, like these," she said, leading me to the front of the crypt.

  I looked down, and amidst lipstick tubes, Mardi Gras beads, coins, and various trinkets was a boa constrictor. "Sweet Jesus!" I shouted, jumping back. "Is that snake alive?"

  "Shhht!" Her black arms flapped like the wings of a raven. "You'll wake the dead."

  Like a psycho, I glanced around in case that was really a thing.

  "It's clearly an animal sacrifice," Theodora said as though she were schooling a slow sorcery student. "Now, you can see from the burnt candles and incense that witchcraft was involved, but so was voodoo."

  I looked again at the X's. "Have you ever heard of a mermaid queen named Jurate or any mermaids in the voodoo culture?"

  She straightened her caftan collar. "I keep my distance from water women. They're a bitchy bunch."

  I wanted to tell her that it takes one to know one, but I held my tongue for fear that she would take it and use it for some macabre magic. "What about amber?" I asked, opting to keep the necklace and its copy quiet. "Is it used in any spells?"

  "All kinds," she replied, proceeding with her cemetery stroll. "For luck, love, protection, purification, prosperity, sexual energy, healing."

  My ears pricked up at that last word because Dirk had said that Jurate was the deity of healing. Had Amber actually been invoking the mermaid queen? If so, what did she need to heal from? The possibilities were endless, not to mention obscure.

  Theodora stopped in front of another mausoleum with a cracked, copper plate that read Madame Lalaurie, née Marie Delphine Maccarthy, décédée à Paris, le 7 Décembre, 1842, à l'âge de 6—.